JJoet  lore  Bramattc 


The  Beat  of  the  Wing 

(L,e  Coup  d"  Aife\ 
FRANCOIS   DE   CUREL 


POET    LORE     DRAMATISTS 


FRANCOIS  de  CUREL 


THE 
BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

(LE  COUP  D'AILE) 

(  A  play  in  three  acts  ) 

Translated  from  the  French  by 
ALICE    VAN    KAATHOVEN 


VERI 
TAT  I 


RICHARD   G.   BADGER 

<£>orf)am 
BOSTON 


Copyright,  1909,  by  the  Poet  Lore  Company. 
All  Rights  Reserved. 


CHARACTERS 

MICHEL  PRINSON. 

BERNARD  PRINSON. 

COLONEL  HEROUARD. 

THE  FLAG  BEARER. 

CHARLES,  A  SERVANT. 

HELENE  FROMENT. 

CLOTILDE  PRINSON  (wife  of     Bernard). 

JEANNE  PRINSON,  her  daughter. 

MATHILDE  RENTY. 

AMELIE,  her  daughter. 

The  three  acts  take  place  in  a  large  room  serving  both  as  hall  and  smoking- 
room,  in  a  villa  built  on  a  high  cliff  overlooking  the  sea.  At  the  rear  runs  a 
gallery  enclosed  in  glass,  which,  on  the  left,  leads  to  the  other  rooms;  to  the 
right  a  small  enclosed  vestibule  leads  to  the  front  door.  The  gallery  com- 
municates with  the  hall  by  two  steps,  the  vestibule  by  three.  Through  the 
panes  of  glass  in  the  rear,  at  the  left,  an  unlimited  stretch  of  ocean  is  seen,  and 
at  the  right,  smiling  hills  surrounding  a  bay.  Through  the  glass  at  the  right 
the  same  hills  are  seen  studded  with  villas  and  their  surrounding  grounds,  and 
immediately  outside  the  window  the  garden  is  perceived,  separated  from  the 
road  by  an  iron  grille  with  a  gate. 


1823797 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I 

CLOTILDE,  JEANNE 

It  is  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  CLOTILDE  and  JEANNE,  in  tea  gowns, 
are  following  with  their  eyes,  the  maneuvres  of  a  mimic  battle  taking  place  on 
the  beach.  Outside  loud  reports  of  musketry  are  heard,  some  at  close  range 
and  some  at  a  distance.  The  sound  of  a  furious  cannonading  proceeding 
from  the  sea  drowns  at  times  other  sounds. 

'Jeanne  (looking  through  the  window  panes  at  the  rear,  calling  to  her 
mother,  who  at  the  other  end  of  the  gallery  is  looking  in  the  opposite  direction). 
-Mother!  Mother!  Hurry.  Here  is  something  new! 

Clotilde  (after  looking  through  her  field  glasses  again). —  I  see  nothing. 

"Jeanne. —  Really  ?     Follow  with  your  glass  along  the  hedge. 

Clotilde  (after  a  fresh  inspection}. —  I  have  them!  What  eyes  you  have! 
I  supposed  the  French  were  holding  that  corner. 

Jeanne  (in  a  tone  of  charitable  superiority). —  Mother,  you  make  me  feel 
sorry  for  you!  You  have  not  a  bit  of  strategic  instinct.  Don't  you  see  that 
Mme.  Rochet's  grounds  are  filled  with  white  cuffs  ?  The  British  are  every- 
where! (The  cannonading  at  sea  becomes  appalling.  Enter  MATHILDE 
and  her  daughter,  AMELIE.) 

SCENE  II 
CLOTILDE,  JEANNE,  MATHILDE,  AMELIE 

Mathilde. —  Dear  friend,  isn't  this  really  too  informal  ?  To  come  to 
see  people  when  the  sun  is  scarcely  up  ? 

Clotilde  (moving  toward  her  and  shaking  her  hand). —  On  the  contrary, 
dear  friend,  too  late!  The  performance  began  near  midnight  and  is  almost 
over.  (Embracing  AMELIE  while  MATHILDE  shakes  the  hand  of  JEANNE.) 
Good  morning,  Amelie! 

Amelie. —  Good  morning,  madame!  Permit  me!  (She  runs  to  the 
gallery  in  the  rear.)  Where  must  one  look  ? 

Jeanne. —  There  isn't  much  left  to  see. 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

> 

Mathilde. —  According  to  what  we  were  told  at  Jossigny-by-the-Sea,  the 
idea  of  the  maneuvre  is  that  an  army  from  England  is  attempting  to  dis- 
embark on  our  coast. 

Jeanne. —  Yes.  Fancy!  These  ships  you  see  are  the  British  flotilla. 
They  are  supposed  to  have  landed  an  army  corps  on  our  coast.  (Inter- 
rupting herself  to  look  at  the  armed  men  whose  firing  increases.}  What  are 
they  up  to  ?  What  if  they  were  fresh  torpedoes  ? 

Amelie. —  You  saw  the  torpedoes  ? 

Jeanne. —  A  superb  attack!     I  scarcely  breathed! 

Amelie. —  And  you  think  more  are  coming  ? 

Jeanne. —  No!     False  alarm! 

Mathilde. —  One  thing  I  can't  understand  is  the  fact  of  their  allowing 
the  invaders  to  land.  It  would  have  been  so  easy  for  the  soldiers  to  have 
prevented  the  boats  from  landing! 

Clotilde. —  There  weren't  any  soldiers.  The  troops  were  mobilized 
a  long  way  from  here.  The  army  trains  were  arriving  all  night. 

Jeanne. —  To  prevent  the  landing  there  were  exactly  eight  custom 
house  officials,  not  another  one!  (The  sound  of  clarions  is  heard  echoing 
from  hill  to  hill  all  along  the  coast,  and  at  the  same  instant,  cannon  and  mus- 
ketry, which  toward  the  last  had  been  going  off  at  rarer  intervals,  now  ceases 
completely.} 

Amelie. —  What  does  that  music  mean  ? 

Mathilde. —  It  is  evidently  the  signal  to  stop  firing,  for  it  does  stop. 

Clotilde. —  Ouf !  (They  all  return  to  the  interior  of  the  apartment.}  It 
seems  quite  strange  not  to  hear  that  perpetual  rumbling  any  more.  My 
head  has  all  gone  to  pieces,  but,  never  mind,  a  sight  like  that  is  wrorth  seeing. 
(To  JEANNE.)  What  a  pity  your  father  was  detained  in  Paris! 

Jeanne  (laughing}. —  On  the  contrary,  I  find  it  very  lucky  that  he  is 
away.  The  generals  would  have  eaten  him  alive.  After  Monday's  speech ! 
Just  think!  The  deputy  who  persuaded  the  chamber  to  reduce  the  war 
appropriation  one  fifth.  The  beplumed  ones  are  not  satisfied. 

Mathilde. —  Plenty  of  others  are!  What  a  success,  dear  friend!  How 
much  I  must  congratulate  you.  Some  day  you  will  be  the  wife  of  the  presi- 
dent of  the  Republic,  you  will  see!  (CHARLES  brings  a  telegram  to  CLO- 
TILDE. He  waits,  while  his  mistress  opens  and  reads  it.} 

Clotilde. —  Oh!     Children!     What    joy!     Jeanne!     Your    father    is 
coming. 

Jeanne. —  To-day,  mother  ? 

Clotilde. —  This  morning,  at  once.  (Reading  the  telegram.}  *I  hear 
at  the  Ministry  that  we  are  having  some  fine  maneuvres  along  our  coast. 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

I  leave  at  once  and  will  arrive  tomorrow  morning  in  time  to  admire  and 
receive  our  valiant  soldiers.  Helene  will  be  with  me.  Have  the  eight 
o'clock  train  met.'  (To  CHARLES.)  Go  to  the  stable  and  tell  them  to  send 
to  the  station  for  monsieur.  (CHARLES  exit.} 

Jeanne. —  Helene  ?  Mother,  who  is  she  ?  We  do  not  know  any 
Helene  intimately. 

Clotilde. —  I  do  not  know  her  any  better  than  you  do,  but  I  know  who 
she  is.  She  is  a  young  girl,  without  either  father  or  mother,  in  whom  your 
father  is  interested,  and  for  whom  I  believe  he  is  also  guardian.  I  am  told 
she  is  charming. 

Jeanne. —  My  age  ? 

Clotilde. —  About  your  age,  I  think. 

Jeanne. —  Will  she  be  here  long  ? 

Clotilde. —  Her  arrival  is  a  surprise.     I  know  nothing  of  her  plans. 

Jeanne. —  If  she  is  nice  she  will  be  a  playfellow  for  me.  (To  AMELIE.) 
Will  you  go  to  the  station  with  me  ?  So  many  people  talk  to  my  father! 
You  will  prevent  my  being  left  alone  with  Helene. 

Am'elie. —  Will  you  let  me,  mother  ? 

Mathilde. —  Go  along,  we  will  wait  to  shake  the  orator's  hand. 

Clotilde  (to  JEANNE). —  On  your  way  tell  the  servants  to  prepare  the 
end  room  for  Miss  Helene.  Hurry,  or  the  carriage  will  leave  without  you. 

Jeanne  (to  AMELIE). —  Come  along,  let  us  make  haste! 
(JEANNE  and  AMELIE  leave.} 

SCENE  III 
CLOTILDE,  MATHILDE 

Clotilde. —  Now  we  are  alone.  Tell  me  frankly  what  you  think  of 
my  husband's  speech. 

Mathilde. —  Mine  thinks  it  a  splendid  speech,  though  rather  dangerous. 

Clotilde. —  Dangerous  for  whom  ? 

Mathilde  (surprised}. —  Why!  For  the  country!  Whom  else  could  it 
affect  ? 

Clotilde. —  The  orator  himself. 

Mathilde. —  I  do  not  understand.  The  Chamber  voted  everything  he 
wanted.  His  triumph  is  complete. 

Clotilde. —  It  was  not  taken  as  well  here  as  in  Paris,  and  his  electors 
are  here. 

Mathilde. —  Yes,  in  our  department  the  people  are  rather  skittish  in 
their  patriotism. 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

Clotilde. —  Just  think!  The  Saint  Leger  foundry,  which  turns  out  war 
material  exclusively,  employs  more  than  ten  thousand  workmen.  They  are 
furious  at  my  husband,  whom  they  accuse  of  destroying  their  means  of  liveli- 
hood by  reducing  the  war  appropriation.  You  can  imagine  how  our  antag- 
onists will  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity  and  pour  oil  on  the  flames. 
A  most  atrocious  article  has  already  appeared  in  a  local  paper.  If  any  more 
such  insinuations  come  out,  Bernard's  position  will  be  impossible  to  maintain. 

Mathilde. —  I  did  not  know  about  the  article.     How  was  it  atrocious  ? 

Clotilde. —  It  brought  to  light  the  great  misfortune  that  has  stricken  our 
family.  It  stirred  up  all  that  baneful  past. 

Mathilde. —  I  am  at  sea.     What  is  there  in  Mr.  Prinson's  past  ? 

Clotilde. —  His  brother. 

Mathilde. —  True!  That  odious  Michel!  For  years  his  name  has 
never  entered  my  mind. 

Clotilde. —  We  do  everything  to  make  the  world  forget  it.  This 
wretched  speech  has  stirred  up  that  evil  memory.  You  can  understand  why 
I  am  troubled.  When  you  bear  the  same  name  as  that  of  a  creature  who 
cost  his  country  so  dear,  you  cannot  speak  with  contempt  of  warlike  virtues. 
One  may  look  into  the  reduction  in  wine  sales,  the  revenue  tax,  the  clergy; 
but  one  must  leave  the  army  alone.  Moreover,  I'll  wager  that  Bernard  is 
sorry  for  his  overflow  of  eloquence.  His  telegram  proves  it.  You  will  read  it 
to-morrow  in  the  papers. 

Mathilde. —  It  is  very  cleverly  worded.  It  will  make  a  good  impres- 
sion. (Silence.)  What  a  scourge  Michel  is!  Ten  years  since  his  death, 
and  still  he  does  harm! 

SCENE  IV 
MATHILDE,  CLOTILDE,  JEANNE,  AMELIE 

The  two  girls  rush  in  suddenly  by  the  garden  door.  They  appear  much 
disturbed  and  out  of  breath  from  running. 

'Jeanne  (to  her  mother,  in  a  broken  voice}. —  Mother!  We  could  not  go 
to  the  station.  At  the  opening  of  the  path  we  wrere  stopped  by  a  man  —  a 
horrible  man  — who  frightened  us  so! 

Clotilde. —  Was  he  begging  ?  Was  he  impudent  ?  Did  he  threaten 
you  ? 

Jeanne. —  No,  not  exactly  impudent  —  nor  did  he  threaten  either. 

Amelie. —  He  isn't  a  beggar,  he  is  nicely  dressed. 

Mathilde. —  Well!     What  did  he  want  ? 

Jeanne. —  We  do  not  know.  We  were  almost  upon  him  without  seeing 
him,  because  he  was  seated  in  the  grass  at  the  extreme  edge  of  the  cliff!  He 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

must  have  been  watching  us  for  some  time.  I  was  ahead,  all  of  a  sudden  he 
stood  before  me  and  for  a  good  minute  he  stared  me  in  the  face.  Then  he 
asked  me,  '  Are  you  the  daughter  of  Bernard  Prinson  ? '  He  said  it  in 
such  a  way!  We  flew  off  like  arrows  and  ran  all  the  way  home. 

Mathilde  (pressing  her  hand  over  her  daughter  s  brow). —  How  hot  you 
are!  To  put  yourself  in  such  a  state  for  a  trifle! 

Jeanne. —  If  you  had  seen  his  face  you  would  not  say  -  '  for  a  trifle  ' 
a  face  covered  with  scars,  hacked  up,  lined,  carved,  and  in  it  all  a  pair  of  eyes 
that  looked  as  if  they  had  been  torn  out  and  put  back  again  by  chance,— 
eyes  burning  with  rage  and  fever.  As  to  the  man,  I  am  convinced  he'd 
knock  down  any  opponent  whatever  with  one  hand.  I  never  saw  anything 
so  hideous  or  so  terrible. 

Clotilde  (smiling). —  What  a  picture!  And  to  think  that  no  doubt  it 
represents  a  very  worthy  man! 

Jeanne. —  As  to  that,  indeed,  mother,  I  could  swear  it  does  not!  He 
cannot  be  a  worthy  man !  (The  crunching  of  the  gravel  outside  is  heard  as  a 
carriage  approaches.} 

Clotilde. —  Your  father!  ( JEANNE  exclaims  joyfully  and  runs  to  the 
doorstep.  At  the  same  moment  the  glass  door  is  opened  and  BERNARD 
PRINSON  enters,  followed  by  HELENE.) 

SCENE  V 
MATHILDE,  CLOTILDE,  JEANNE,  AMELIE,  BERNARD,  HELENE 

Jeanne  (throwing  her  arms  around  her  father's  neck). —  Father,  let  me 
salute  you!  (She  kisses  him  upon  his  right  cheek.}  This  for  you!  (She 
kisses  him  on  his  left  cheek.}  This  for  your  beautiful  speech! 

Clotilde  (embracing  her  husband}. —  Did  you  have  a  pleasant  journey  ? 

Bernard  (while  a  servant  helps  him  off  with  his  hat  and  coat,  which  he 
carries  away  with  him). —  Excellent!  I  sleep  in  a  car  as  well  as  in  my  bed. 
(Motioning  toward  HELENE.)  Here  is  a  young  person  who  must  be  less 
rested,  for  she  did  not  close  her  eyes  all  night.  (Taking  HELENE  by  the 
shoulder  and  pushing  her  toward  his  wife.}  Let  me  introduce  you.  She  is 
very  sweet  and  can  argue  with  great  maturity.  We  talked  very  little  last 
night  in  the  dining-car,  but  I  discovered  that  much.  , 

Clotilde  (giving  her  hand  to  HELENE.) — Mademoiselle,  you  are  welcome. 
I  hope  you  will  be  happy  here.  (HELENE  bows  timidly.} 

Bernard  (pushing  HELENE  toward  JEANNE). —  Jeanne,  I  place  her  in 
your  care.  (JEANNE  smiles  at  HELENE  and  takes  her  a  little  aside,  attempting 
meanwhile  to  converse.  AMELIE  joins  them,  after  BERNARD,  in  passing,  has 
given  her  a  friendly  shake  of  the  hand.} 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 
> 

Mathilde  (shaking  BERNARD'S  hand}. —  You  find  the  house  invaded, 
not  by  the  enemy,  but  by  indiscreet  friends.  We  have  been  here  since 
dawn  to  see  the  battle. 

Bernard. —  Was  it  fine  ? 

Clotilde. —  Splendid!     We  spent  the  night  at  the  window. 

Bernard  (laughing}. —  We  shall  discover  shortly  that  after  having  made 
four  hundred  kilometers  since  last  night  I  am  the  freshest  of  you  all.  (After 
a  pause  he  says  to  CLOTILDE),  I  have  news  for  you.  After  leaving  the 
station  I  had  the  carriage  stop  at  the  mayor's,  where  I  learned  that  we  are 
to  put  up  Colonel  Herouard,  of  the  lyoth  infantry.  He  is  coming  at  once. 

Clotilde. —  The  troops,  then,  do  not  return  to  the  garrison  to-day  ? 

Bernard. —  No.  The  maneuvres  will  last  several  days  and  the  soldiers 
remain  stationed  in  the  neighborhood. 

Jeanne  (clapping  her  hands}. —  Oh!    What  luck!     Another  battle! 

Bernard  (smiling}. —  By  Jove!  The  daughter  of  the  most  pacific  of  all 
the  deputies  indulging  in  such  Valkyrie  enthusiasm! 

Clotilde  (laughing}. —  The  Valkyrie  has  just  been  sadly  routed! 

Jeanne  (mortified}. —  Oh!     Mother! 

Clotilde. —  What  might  be  called  a  rout!  (To  BERNARD.)  She 
started  to  go  to  meet  you,  and  a  hundred  yards  away  from  the  house  some 
old  codger  asks  her  if  she  is  not  the  daughter  of  Bernard  Prinson.  Instead 
of  replying  she  takes  to  her  heels,  and  we  were  present  at  her  anything  but 
triumphal  entry. 

Jeanne. —  If  he  had  appeared  to  mother  I  should  like  to  know  what  she 
would  have  done.  That  '  old  codger  '  indeed.  I  defy  any  one  to  look  at 
him  and  not  be  afraid. 

Bernard  (becoming  very  intent}. —  Old  or  young  ? 

Jeanne. —  He  is  so  marked  up  it  is  not  possible  to  tell.  Not  very  old, 
at  any  rate. 

Bernard. —  After  asking  you  if  you  were  my  daughter  what  else  did  he 
say  ? 

Clotilde  (laughing). —  If  he  said  anything  more,  she  was  far  away. 
(A  servant  appears  and  makes  a  sign  to  CLOTILDE.)  Coffee  is  served.  If 
you  will  go  into  the  dining-room  (to  MATHILDE).  Dear  friend,  you  must  be 
dying  of  hunger  after  such  an  early  start  ? 

Mathilde. —  Not  at  all.  We  breakfasted  before  leaving,  and  now  that 
we  have  found  our  deputy  in  good  health  we  are  going  to  run  away.  I  also 
have  to  receive  some  officers  and  I  must  see  they  are  properly  housed.  I 
am  putting  up  two  lieutenants  who,  no  doubt,  will  have  comrades  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  I  intend  to  ask  all  these  young  people  to  tea  this  after- 
noon. We  shall  have  a  little  dance.  Don't  fail  to  come. 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

Clotilde. —  We  accept  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  (MATHILDE  and 
AMELIE  shake  BERNARD'S  hand.  CLOTILDE  accompanies  her  visitors  as  far 
as  the  doorstep.  BERNARD  prevents  JEANNE  from  following.} 

Bernard  (to  JEANNE). —  Show  Miss  Froment  to  the  dining-room  and 
tell  them  to  bring  me  my  coffee  here.  I  must  speak  to  your  mother. 

Jeanne  (to  HELENE). —  Come,  let  us  both  go.  (HELENE  and  JEANNE 
exeunt.  At  the  same  instant  CLOTILDE  returns.} 

SCENE  VI 
CLOTILDE,  BERNARD 

Bernard. —  The  man  of  whom  Jeanne  is  so  afraid,  guess  who  it  is! 

Clotilde.—  Who  is  it? 

Bernard. —  Michel! 

Clotilde. —  Your  brother  ? 

Bernard. —  Yes. 

Clotilde. —  What  makes  you  think  so  ? 

Bernard. —  A  line  I  received  from  him  yesterday  in  which  he  announces 
his  proposed  visit.  It  is  he! 

Clotilde. —  But  he  swore  never  to  return  to  France. 

Bernard. —  First,  he  swore  nothing  of  the  kind,  and,  besides,  oaths  to 
him,  you  know 

Clotilde. —  Yet,  when  he  came  back  from  Africa  he  was  absolutely  at 
your  mercy.  You  ought  to  have  taken  advantage  of  it  to  bar  his  way. 

Bernard. —  How  do  you  mean, '  to  bar  his  way  '  ? 

Clotilde. —  We  were  sure  he  was  dead.  The  papers  throughout  the 
entire  world  had  described  his  sufferings  at  length  and  counted  the  wounds 
on  his  dead  body.  An  official  notice  of  your  brother's  death  had  given  you 
leave  to  inherit  his  fortune.  Who  compelled  you  to  return  it  to  him  as  you 
did  ?  Nobody.  One  owes  nothing  to  a  corpse.  I  understood  when  we 
decided  upon  restitution  that  you  took  a  formal  guarantee. 

Bernard. —  You  misunderstood.  For  two  years  we  were  sure  of  my 
brother's  death,  when  a  man  named  Renaud  wrote  me  from  London  that  he 
was  that  brother,  miraculously  escaped  from  his  executioners  through  num- 
berless dangers.  He  told  merrily  —  for  this  bad  penny  always  has  had  a 
sense  of  humor  —  of  his  crossing  as  stoker  in  the  steamboat  carrying  him  to 
England,  and  of  his  battle  with  hunger  during  the  first  few  months.  It  was 
the  middle  of  winter,  and  he  had  had  the  luck  to  land  during  a  week  of 
heavy  snowstorms  and  been  engaged  as  an  extra  sweeper  at  a  street  crossing. 
After  the  thaw  he  was  engaged  as  a  scrubber  in  an  office  in  the  city,  where, 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

thanks  to  his  knowledge  of  the  French  language,  he  was  promoted  to  the 
position  of  clerk.  It  is  then  that  Mr.  Renaud,  small  employee  in  a  London 
bank,  wrote  to  me,  for  no  other  reason,  I  verily  believe,  than  to  show  off  his 
success  in  defying  death.  He  asked  nothing  —  nothing.  His  whole  pride 
lay  in  his  endurance  in  overcoming  all  things,  even  fate.  At  that  time,  my 
political  prospects  were  growing  and  they  had  not  greatly  suffered  from 
Michel's  disgrace.  He  having  paid  for  his  treachery  with  his  life,  we  were 
quits.  At  any  price  it  was  necessary  to  prevent  him  from  coming  to  life 
again.  I  deposited  to  Mr.  Renaud's  credit  in  London  the  equivalent  of 
what  I  had  inherited  from  my  brother.  Mr.  Renaud,  touched  by  the  pro- 
ceeding, answered  that  Michel  Prinson  was  dead.  Mark  that!  He  never 
promised  not  to  appear  in  France.  Michel  dead,  that's  all. 

Clotilde. —  How  does  he  dare  to  risk  himself  in  France  ?  If  he  gets 
caught,  a  pirate,  an  assassin,  a  traitor,  it  means  the  guillotine. 

Bernard. —  Not  at  all.  His  crime  committed  ten  years  ago  is  outlawed. 
That  is  doubtless  what  makes  him  bold  enough  to  return.  He  can  come 
and  go  without  danger. 

Clotilde. —  Charming!     All  the  danger  is  yours! 

Bernard  (smiling). —  He  would  receive  his  share  if  he  were  recognized, 
for  he  would  be  treated  like  a  mad  dog.  Just  the  same  it  would  not  prevent 
me  from  being  in  a  nice  scrape.  The  presence  at  my  side  of  such  a  brother 
wrould  be  exploited  in  the  choicest  terms. 

Clotilde. —  All  the  more  so,  that  Michel  is  arriving  at  a  critical  period. 
Your  speech  was  a  marvel.  I  congratulate  you  heartily.  Yet  I  feel  some- 
how that  you  went  too  far,  and  that  in  your  particular  position  it  would  be 
better  not  to  concern  yourself  with  the  army. 

Bernard. —  To  whom  are  you  talking  ?  I  have  made  myself  the  apostle 
of  peace  whom  every  one  praises  just  the  same  as  if  my  constituents  did  not 
earn  their  bread  by  manufacturing  war  implements. 

Clotilde. —  An  enormous  mistake,  my  friend! 

Bernard. —  But,  heaven  bless  me!  If  you  want  to  command  great  occa- 
sions you  must  learn  how  to  lose  sight  of  your  own  town  clock  for  an  instant. 
No  danger,  though,  but  there  is  a  mistake!  Since  Monday  I  have  been 
receiving  mountains  of  letters  and  telegrams,  all  of  them  furious.  The  most 
formidable  thing  is  the  fact  that  all  of  them  refer  to  Michel  at  precisely  the 
moment  when  he  reappears. 

Clotilde. —  Your  correspondents  are  inspired  by  an  odious  article  in 
La  Vigie,  unearthing  your  brother's  whole  history. 

Bernard. —  I  read  the  article.  Well,  the  harm  is  done;  let  us  try  to 
remedy  it.  I  have  already  begun.  As  I  passed  through  the  town  I  stopped 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

at  the  mayor's  to  ask  them  to  allow  me  to  put  up  one  of  the  superior  officers. 

Clotilde  (laughing). —  You  asked  them!  To  Madame  Renty  you  said 
you  had  been  notified  you  were  to  put  up. 

Bernard. —  Jingo!  She  does  not  have  to  be  initiated  into  all  my  little 
secrets.  (A  servant  brings  in  a  tray  on  which  are  coffee,  rolls,  and  butter. 
During  the  remainder  of  the  scene  and  the  scene  following  BERNARD  break- 
fasts very  slowly.)  Yes,  I  asked  for  it  and  I  did  well,  the  clerk  assured  me 
that  had  I  not  requested  it  no  one  would  have  been  sent  to  us.  Well!  We 
have  the  colonel!  None  of  the  generals  stay  at  Jossigny.  Had  there  been 
one,  he  would  have  been  for  us. 

Clotilde. —  I  know  a  colonel  who  is  going  to  be  beautifully  spoiled.  If 
only  your  brother,  by  causing  some  scandal,  does  not  ruin  everything!  He 
certainly  runs  great  danger  of  being  recognized.  In  the  days  of  his  glory 
his  picture  appeared  in  all  the  papers.  His  face  was  familiar.  Besides, 
how  many  people  saw  him!  At  that  reception,  organized  in  his  honor  when 
he  returned  for  the  first  time  from  Africa,  millions  of  people  crowded  the 
Trocadero.  During  the  entire  afternoon  every  one's  eyes  were  riveted  upon 
him.  Because  he  was  interesting,  the  rascal!  Do  you  remember  ?  When 
he  almost  fainted  from  emotion  ?  From  every  woman's  lips  came  a  little 
cry  of  tenderness.  Ah!  He  would  not  have  found  many  cruel  women  that 
night  in  Paris.  After  having  been  for  a  whole  day  the  idol  of  his  country, 
how  could  he  pass  unnoticed  ? 

Bernard. —  Jeanne  has  just  seen  him  face  to  face;  did  she  recognize 
him  ?  I  have  no  fear  on  that  score.  When  he  announced  his  visit,  he  sent 
me  his  photograph  to  reassure  me,  and,  indeed,  he  is  not  himself  any  more. 

Clotilde. —  Oh !     Show  me  his  picture! 

Bernard. —  After  a  while;  it  is  in  my  valise.  But  here  is  the  line  I 
received.  (He  pulls  from  his  pocket  an  envelope  which  he  hands  to  her.} 

Clotilde. —  A  card!  He  did  not  have  much  to  say!  (Looking  at  the 
post  mark.)  From  Geneva.  (Drawing  the  card  out  of  the  envelope  and 
reading):  '  Mr.  Renaud  desiring  to  have  a  talk  with  the  deputy  Prinson, 
proposes  to  spend  the  first  fortnight  of  July  at  Jossigny-bv-the-Sea,  knowing 
by  the  papers  that  the  Prinson  family  live  there.  He  hopes  that  the  fort- 
night will  not  elapse  without  his  finding  an  occasion  to  meet  Mr.  Prinson, 
and  he  wrill  have  the  honor  to  present  himself  several  times  at  his  door.  He 
takes  the  likerty  of  sending  his  photograph,  in  order  that  Mr.  Prinson  may 
be  entirely  convinced  that  Mr.  Renaud's  face  will  arouse  no  memories 
of  a  physiognomy  odious  to  all  good  Frenchmen.'  Always  the  same  cyni- 
cism! Still,  the  tone  is  not  threatening.  The  insistence  with  which  he  calls 
himself  Renaud,  the  care  he  takes  in  establishing  the  fact  that  he  is  unre- 
cognizable, are  good  signs.  But,  in  the  end,  what  does  he  want  ? 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 
> 

Bernard. —  I  do  not  know,  but  whatever  it  is,  one  can  be  sure  that  he 
will  make  his  request  known  without  a  vestige  of  family  feeling  causing  his 
heart  to  beat  at  the  idea  of  seeing  us  again.  After  reading  those  lines,  my 
resolution  was  made  at  once  to  return;  I  did  not  wish  to  leave  you  alone, 
even  for  a  day,  with  that  pirate  for  a  neighbor.  And  then,  not  knowing  to 
what  saint  to  confide  myself,  I  took  the  bull  by  the  horns,  and  brought  his 
daughter. 

Clotilde. —  How  do  you  expect  to  revive  a  paternal  sentiment  that  never 
existed  ? 

Bernard. —  I  hope  for  something  quite  different.  His  daughter,  whom 
he  did  not  want  when  she  was  a  burden,  perhaps  he  might  welcome  when  she 
could  be  a  comfort.  Why,  if  Michel  is  suffering  from  loneliness,  would  it 
not  occur  to  him  to  take  this  gentle,  well  brought  up  creature  away  with  him  ? 

Clotilde. —  How  would  that  help  us  ? 

Bernard  (laughing). —  First,  to  rid  ourselves  of  her,  and  then,  under 
such  circumstances,  to  fear  Michel  less.  A  man  who  leads  a  life  apart, 
hostile  and  indifferent  to  everything,  is  hard  to  approach  in  a  critical  situa- 
tion. See  how  different,  were  he  to  come  accompanied  by  Helene!  We 
would  know  through  her  what  his  plans  were.  We  could  negotiate  through 
her,  profit  by  her  influence.  Instead  of  treating  writh  a  kind  of  demon,  I 
would  be  facing  a  rogue  more  or  less  like  other  men.  Eh!  When  I  hesi- 
tate to  burden  myself  with  Helene!  Do  you  remember  ?  I  might  perfectly 
well  have  dispensed  with  that  charge.  My  brother's  natural  daughter,— 
that  would  not  count.  But  the  curate  of  the  village  in  which  Helene's  mother 
had  just  died  wrote  me  letter  after  letter.  He  compared  me  to  Jean  Jacques 
making  foundlings  of  his  family.  Such  tales  as  those  are  mines  of  blackmail. 
A  democratic  leader  ought  to  be  able  to  take  his  part  in  the  discussion  of 
live  subjects,  such  as  the  legalized  search  for  paternity,  without  risking 
unpleasant  references.  Rather  against  my  will  I  did  a  worthy  deed,  and 
now  I  am  repaid,  since  the  presence  of  Helene  is,  to  a  certain  extent,  a 
safeguard. 

Clotilde. —  Do  not  boast  too  much  of  your  worthy  deed.  During  the 
eight  years  since  that  child  has  been  in  boarding  school  have  you  ever 
asked  three  times  to  see  her  ? 

Bernard  (laughing). —  Certainly  not  more. 

Clotilde. —  As  for  me,  I  should  have  been  glad  to  have  done  something 
for  her,  but  you  forbade  it. 

Bernard. —  I  considered  any  connection  between  her  and  my  family 
useless  and  dangerous.  Only  an  unknown  danger  now  threatening  me 
decided  me  to  bring  her  into  relationship  with  you. 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

Clotilde. —  I  should  like  to  avoid  any  mistakes.  Tell  me  does  she  know 
that  Michel  is  her  father  ? 

Bernard  (quickly). —  The  devil,  no!  Be  careful!  Plenty  of  time  to 
enlighten  her,  if  Michel  becomes  interested.  Moreover  it  will  be  Mr. 
Renaud,  never  Michel. 

Clotilde. —  Well,  in  regard  to  her  birth,  what  does  she  think  ? 

Bernard. —  Her  mother  and  herself  deserted  at  her  birth  by  a  father 
of  whose  name  she  is  ignorant.  Moreover,  I  have  given  her  to  understand 
that  I  watched  over  her  education  as  president  of  a  society  for  the  protection 
of  children. 

Clotilde. —  The  girl  is  quite  pretty,  but  her  face  has  a  hard  look.  Her 
character  may  be  the  sort  not  always  easy  to  manage.  If  she  is  a  bit  queer 
it  is  no  wonder,  for  she  hasn't  much  to  thank  life  for.  What  must  she  be 
thinking  this  minute  ?  For  eight  years  you  leave  her  shut  up,  then  all  of  a 
sudden  you  carry  her  off,  drop  her  into  a  fine  carriage,  lead  her  into  a 
charming  villa.  '  And  this  is  my  house!  I  hope  you  will  be  happy  here! 
This  is  my  wife,  my  daughter.'  What  a  muddle  in  her  brain!  Didn't  she 
ask  you  any  questions  while  you  were  traveling  ? 

Bernard. —  It  was  I  who  questioned  her.  In  spite  of  my  preferences 
for  secular  education,  I  placed  her  with  the  sisters  in  the  hope  that  at  the 
end  of  her  term  she  might  take  the  veil.  Those  vocations  are  a  good  thing 
sometimes. 

Clotilde. —  Just  now  such  a  vocation  would  interfere  with  your  plan  of 
attaching  her  to  Michel. 

Bernard. —  Neither  do  I  now  want  the  cloister  for  her.  It  is  precisely 
to  enlighten  myself  in  regard  to  her  tastes  that  I  have  been  cleverly  question- 
ing her.  Well!  Fancy!  Two  years  ago  she  really  did  think  of  taking  the 
veil.  But  the  curious  part  of  it  was  she  did  not  wish  to  enter  the  order  of 
the  sisters  by  whom  she  had  been  brought  up. 

Clotilde. —  What  order  did  she  select  ? 

Bernard. —  I  do  not  know.  We  were  talking  while  at  dinner  and  a 
colleague  of  the  Chamber,  who  asked  if  he  could  sit  at  our  table,  ended  our 
interview.  Here  she  is.  (HFLENE  enters  with  JEANNE.) 

SCENE  VII 
CLOTILDE,  BERNARD,  HELENE,  JEANNE 

'Jeanne  (comes  up  to  her  father  caressingly}. —  My  dear  old  papa,  let  me 
embrace  you  again!  (As  she  leans  over  his  shoulder  she  notices  that  his  cup 
of  coffee  has  scarcely  been  touched}. —  Why!  Your  cup  is  still  full!  You 


haven't  taken  three  mouthfuls!     Was  it  so  very  important,  what  you  had  to 
say  ?     Shall  I  have  the  coffee  brought  back  ?     Yours  is  cold. 

Bernard. —  Let  it  alone!     I  shall  have  finished  it  in  a  moment. 

Jeanne. —  To  begin  with  you  shan't  get  in  a  single  word,  I  have  too 
many  things  to  tell  you.  (She  continues  to  talk  to  htm  in  an  undertone.} 

Clotilde  (to  HELENE). —  If  my  husband  has  neglected  his  breakfast  it 
is  I  who  am  to  blame.  I  asked  him  so  many  questions!  You  can  fancy 
about  whom  ?  About  you,  dear  young  lady.  I  have  wanted  often  to  look 
you  up.  I  was  not  able  to,  but  the  intention  was  there.  Believe  me  —  I 
should  be  glad  to  be  of  use  to  you.  I  will  have  to  know  you  a  little  better 
for  that.  But  I  hope  you  will  trust  me  and  tell  me  everything. 

Helene. —  I  should  be  only  too  glad  to  do  so,  but  what  is  there  to  tell  ? 
There  never  was  a  past  as  blank  as  mine. 

Clotilde. —  Perhaps  not  filled  with  events.  And  yet!  I  have  just 
learned  that  two  years  ago  you  had  thought  of  taking  the  veil.  That  is 
certainly  an  event  in  the  life  of  the  soul!  Were  you  really  decided  ? 

Helene. —  Yes  —  almost. 

Clotilde. —  Of  course  you  would  have  entered  the  convent  in  which  you 
were  educated  ? 

Helene. —  No,  I  wished  to  join  the  order  of  the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor. 

Clotilde. —  Your  dream,  at  eighteen,  was  then  to  take  care  of  the  aged 
and  infirm  ? 

Helene.—  My  dream !     Oh!     Not  at  all!     My  will. 

Clotilde. —  But  why  ? 

Helene. —  I  was  not  happy.  I  had  lost  my  mother  who  loved  me 
deeply,  and  her  affection  had  never  been  replaced.  No  one  about  me  real- 
ized how  lonely  I  was.  So  it  was  very  simple.  When  you  cannot  be  com- 
forted yourself  you  feel  a  desire  to  comfort  others. 

Clotilde. —  Does  that  seem  plain  to  you  ? 

Helene. —  It  seems  to  me  that  —  to  comfort  or  be  comforted  —  either 
one  will  warm  the  heart. 

Clotilde. —  You  gave  it  up.     Why  ? 

Helene. —  I  feared  I  should  not  persevere  in  it  all  my  life.  I  am  not 
good  enough. 

Clotilde. —  Must  one  be  so  phenomenally  good  ? 

Helene. —  Yes,  in  some  ways.  All  sorts  of  things  happen.  Fancy, 
for  instance,  if  among  all  the  old  men  entrusted  to  my  care  an  enemy  of 
mine  were  to  come  some  day. 

Clotilde. —  An  enemy!     You  have  one  then  ? 

Helene. —  Perhaps,  madame. 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

Clotilde. —  You  have  no  doubt  of  it,  judging  by  your  voice.  What 
harm  has  been  done  you  ? 

Helene. —  My  mother  died  of  exhaustion  from  overwork  —  I  grew  up 
in  a  cellar. 

Clotilde  (embarrassed}. —  Then  one  must  look  close  to  you  for  - 

Helene. —  Yes,  very  close. 

Clotilde  (thinking  herself  implicated). —  Yet  those  whom  you  accuse  - 

Helene. —  I  accuse  one  only  —  there!  My  father.  If  I  recognized 
him,  even  overwhelmed  with  illness,  I  could  not  forgive  him.  A  truly 
Christian  spirit  would  manage  to  love  him  for  God's  sake. 

Bernard  (rising). —  Come!  Now  I  am  well  stocked!  (To  JEANNE.) 
Ring  for  them  to  remove  the  tray.  (JEANNE  pushes  an  electric  button.) 

Clotilde  (to  JEANNE). —  Did  you  show  Mademoiselle  her  room  ? 

Jeanne  (smiling  at  HELENE). —  Not  yet;   I  am  going  to  now. 

Clotilde  (to  HELENE). —  I  selected  a  room  for  you  from  which  you  can 
see  the  open  sea.  I  suppose  that  until  you  came  here  you  had  never  seen 
the  ocean  ? 

Helene. —  Even  here,  madame,  I  have  not  yet  seen  it. 

Jeanne  (laughing). —  It's  true,  where  could  she  have  seen  it?  She 
came  in  a  carriage  by  way  of  the  town,  and  at  table  her  back  was  turned 
to  the  window.  (Slipping  her  arm  in  a  friendly  manner  through  Helene's, 
she  drags  her  to  the  gallery  at  the  right.)  Look!  (HELENE,  dumb  with 
admiration,  gazes  at  the  sea,  which  glimmers  in  the  bright  sunlight.) 

Clotilde. —  Do  you  not  think  it  beautiful  ? 

Helene. —  Yes. 

Jeanne. —  Did  you  expect  such  immensity  ? 

Helene. —  My  eyes  are  unused  to  any  horizon  greater  than  four  walls. 
The  immensity  does  not  enter  in.  I  scarcely  have  the  sensation  of  seeing. 
I  have  above  all  the  sensation  of  being  able  —  yes,  of  being  able  to  glide  over 
all  that,  for  days  and  days. 

Bernard  (laughing). — You  think  she  is  discovering  the  ocean  ?  Not 
at  all,  she  is  discovering  liberty!  (At  the  same  instant  JEANNE,  much 
disturbed,  points  with  her  finger  to  an  individual  walking  along  by  the  garden 
fence.) 

Jeanne. —  Father!  There  is  the  man  who  frightened  me  so!  He  is 
looking  at  the  house.  (BERNARD  rushes  to  see  whom  she  means.)  There! 
-  standing  by  the  fence! 

(BERNARD,  after  a  quick  examination,  joining  CLOTILDE,  talks  to  her  in 
an  undertone,  while  HELENE  and  JEANNE  continue  to  watch  the  movements 
of  the  intruder.) 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

> 

Bernard. —  It  is  indeed  he!  Leave  us  alone!  I  will  keep  Helene  and 
Jeanne  for  a  moment — on  account  of  Helene  —  to  show  her  to  him  — 
that  he  may  know  she  is  his  daughter. 

^Jeanne. —  He  is  coming  into  the  garden.  He  has  seen  us!  He  is 
coming! 

Bernard  (very  calmly}. —  Well!  Let  him  come!  I  know  him.  He  is 
a  very  worthy  man!  (CLOTILDE  leaves.  HELENE  and  JEANNE  start  to 
follow.}  No.  You  two  remain.  And  if  he  attempts  to  talk  to  you,  in- 
stead of  evading  him,  be  pleasant  and  trusting.  Do  you  hear  me,  Helene  ? 
(As  he  pronounces  the  last  words,  he  opens  the  front  door  and  ushers  in 
MICHEL,  who  appears  tall,  large,  disfigured,  horrible  to  behold.  His  face  is 
at  first  half  hidden  by  a  broad-brimmed  hat  of  soft  felt  pulled  down  over  his 
eyes.  When  he  has  taken  three  strides  into  the  room  he  removes  it  and  the 
scars  upon  his  brow  are  no  longer  concealed) 

SCENE  VIII 
BERNARD,   JEANNE,  HELENE,  MICHEL 

Michel  (very  jovial,  without  stretching  out  his  hand  to  BERNARD,  pre- 
senting himself}. —  It  is  Mr.  Renaud!  Good  morning! 

Bernard  (without  taking  a  step  toward  him  and  in  a  dull,  even  voice}. — 
Good  morning,  Mr.  Renaud.  This  is  my  daughter,  Jeanne. 

Michel  (always  in  the  same  buoyant  tone}. —  Ah!  Yes!  She  is  not  too 
angry  with  the  great  blockhead  who  frightened  her  ?  This  time,  eh!  No 
way  of  hiding!  Look  at  me  well,  Mademoiselle  Jeanne!  (She  looks  him 
square  in  the  face.}  Aha!  That's  good!  Some  progress  has  been  made! 
(Turning  to  HELENE.)  And  this  one  —  has  she  also  regained  her  courage  ? 
Ah!  But!  I've  made  a  mistake!  (To  JEANNE.)  She  is  not  the  one  you 
were  with  a  short  time  ago  ? 

Jeanne. —  No,    indeed. 

Bernard  (importantly). —  I  present  you  to  Mademoiselle  Helene 
Froment. 

Michel  (struck  by  a  memory}. —  Wait  a  minute!  Froment!  I  know 
that  name!  I  must  have  met  the  young  lady  before.  (HELENE  makes  a 
simple  motion  of  denial.)  Yes,  mademoiselle  —  but  you  were  too  small. 
You  could  not  have  formed  an  opinion  about  me.  (To  BERNARD.)  I  am 
in  particularly  good  luck.  The  family  united.  Yet  Madame  Prinson  is 
missing. 

Bernard  (nonplussed). —  My  wife  is  well,  thank  you!  (Motioning  to 
JEANNE  to  retire  with  HELENE).  My  children,  I  must  speak  with  Renaud. 
(HELENE  and  JEANNE  leave,  after  a  bow  to  MICHEL.) 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

SCENE  IX 
BERNARD,  MICHEL,  then  CHARLES 

Bernard  (much  disturbed}. —  You,  here,  Michel! 

Michel  (jeering). —  Ah!     You  are  very  familiar  with  Mr.  Renaud ! 

Bernard. —  Enough  comedy.     If  you  wish  to  converse,  do  so  seriously. 

Michel. —  You  are  right;  the  best  jokes  are  the  shortest  ones.  From 
now  on  I  am  myself. 

Bernard  (anxious). —  Only  with  me,  however. 

Michel. —  Ah !  Ah !  Renaud  for  the  gallery  and  Michel  for  you. 
You  are  right  to  explain  the  difference;  otherwise  I'll  be  blessed  if,  to  the 
first  person  entering 

Bernard. —  Yes,  or  no,  are  you  here  to  make  trouble  for  me  ? 

Michel  (amiably). —  What  do  you  think!  What  pleasure  should  I 
derive  from  making  you  trouble  ? 

Bernard. —  You  have  a  way  of  speaking 

Michel. —  Don't  notice  it.  I  am  no  longer  in  the  habit  —  that  is  to 
say,  I  remain  weeks,  months,  without  speaking  to  any  one,  and  when  I 
find  people  to  listen  to  they  are  not  duchesses.  Trouble  ?  Drat  it,  no! 
You  are  too  worthy  a  man !  I  arrive  and  who  do  I  see  established  at  your 
fireside,  treated  like  your  own  daughter?  Mine!  She  whom  I  rather 
shabbily  deserted  with  her  mother  some  time  ago.  Do  you  also  house  the 
mother  ? 

Bernard. —  She  is  dead. 

Michel. —  Too  bad!  That  woman  once  loved  me.  It  would  be  an 
amusing  experience  to  meet  one  of  my  past  flames.  To  run  to  her  with 
outstretched  arms  and  cry,  '  I  am  your  adored  Michel!  '  (Laughing 
heartily.)  With  such  a  mug,  eh !  What  say  you  ? 

Bernard  (revolted). —  What  do  I  say?  Listen!  When  you  WTote  me 
from  England  you  had  been  saved  I  preferred  not  to  answer.  You  asked 
for  no  news  and  out  of  a  kind  of  pity  I  recoiled  from  giving  you  the  news 
I  had.  I  opened  an  account  for  Mr.  Renaud,  you  acknowledged  receipt 
of  the  same,  we  stopped  there.  But  in  the  face  of  your  impudence,  I  feel 
like  showing  you  the  havoc  you  have  wrought.  Two  months  after  the 
history  of  your  rebellion  was  published  in  Europe,  our  mother  died  of  a 
broken  heart.  Yes,  it  can  be  proven,  solely  of  that,  for  till  that  disaster  her 
health  could  not  have  been  better.  As  to  our  father,  it  is  still  more  sad. 
You  were  his  favorite.  As  long  as  it  was  a  question  of  your  promotion,  of 
your  campaigns,  of  your  fame,  his  eyes  would  shine.  One  day  he  came  into 
my  room  while  I  was  writing  and  spread  a  paper  out  before  me.  With  his 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

> 

finger  he  pointed  to  some  headlines  -  "  Central  Africa.  Revolt  of  a  French 
officer  '  —  Then  I  began  the  horrible  article  in  which  each  line  described 
a  crime.  The  expedition  commanded  by  Michel  Prinson  accused  of  atroc- 
ities; villages  burned,  women,  children  murdered,  prisoners  crammed  with 
dynamite  cartridges  which  were  then  exploded.  A  second  expedition  sent 
in  search  of  the  first  column  of  evil  fame.  The  history  of  the  ambush  pre- 
pared by  you.  The  massacre  of  all  the  whites!  The  heroic  end  of  the 
colonel  who  fell  beneath  the  shells  while  crying  out  the  promise  of  pardon. 
When  I  reached  the  end  my  father  made  a  sign  for  me  to  be  still.  He 
walked  out  without  having  opened  his  lips.  Never  again  did  he  pronounce 
your  name.  He  dragged  on  for  months  with  some  strange  ailment.  One 
morning  he  was  found  dead  in  bed.  We  succeeded  in  suppressing  the  fact 
that  he  had  taken  poison!  (A  long  silence.} 

Michel. —  The  poor  old  people!  Very  sad!  Pah!  When  a  cankerous 
fruit  drops  from  the  tree  does  the  remaining  fruit  complain  ?  They  ripen 
all  the  better.  Why  are  human  beings  less  clever  ?  And,  moreover,  am  I  to 
be  responsible  for  all  the  inaccuracies  they  have  published  about  me  ?  For 
instance,  the  orgies  of  cannibalism  —  pure  invention!  The  truth  was  I 
sometimes  grubbed  with  my  blacks  as  it  was  customary  for  a  chief  to  do  — 
you  cannot  imagine  all  the  queer  things  that  simmered  in  that  stew  —  croco- 
dile, snake,  parrot.  Sometimes  I'd  pull  out  bits  of  monkey  —  from  afar 
one  might  have  mistaken  the  shape.  There  again!  That  story  about  a 
missionary  and  three  nuns  who  carried  on  a  small  mission  school  at  the 
frontier  of  the  desert  whom  I  am  supposed  to  have  seized  and  dragged  about 
for  hundreds  of  miles,  in  order  to  abandon  them  finally  in  the  bush  after 
the  grossest  ill  treatment  —  nothing  more  untrue.  To  begin  with  I  left  the 
missionary  perfectly  undisturbed  at  his  post.  What  could  I  have  done  with 
him  ?  As  to  the  nuns,  they  were  set  free  the  very  next  day  and  entrusted 
to  a  caravan  that  was  to  pass  right  in  front  of  their  school.  All  my  deeds 
have  been  enlarged,  distorted  to  suit  the  fancy.  I  admit  one:  to  have  laid 
the  snare  in  which  those  people  perished  —  that,  yes  —  that  was  a  blasted 
trick!  And  I  might  say  much  more  besides  —  (interrupting  himself). 
Come  now,  come  now!  upon  my  word,  I  am  excusing  myself.  A  little  more 
and  I'd  be  begging  for  pardon!  Andyou  who  are  giving  yourself  the  airs  of  a 
judge!  No,  that's  too  good  a  joke!  I  cleaned  up  those  people  because  they 
were  coming  to  take  my  power  from  me,  and  over  there  power  is  worth 
clinging  to.  To  command  in  a  wild  country!  Ah!  My  children!  That 
is  what  can  be  called  holding  trumps!  To  be  a  nigger  king  and  hold  a  feast 
to  the  beat  of  the  tom-tom!  To  smoke  one's  pipe  in  one's  harem  like  a 
horse  gyp  in  his  stable,  a  stable  swarming  with  women  who  are  fine,  bold, 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

and  tractable  animals  that  one  selects,  feels,  takes,  or  leaves.  And  the  hunt! 
The  killing  of  zebra  or  antelope,  lion  hunts,  elephant  hunts,  gorilla  or  negro 
hunts,  in  the  vastness  of  a  forest  of  which  you  feel  you  are  sovereign.  Fancy 
any  one  coming  to  disturb  me  in  there  when  my  guns  are  ready  to  go  off! 
Oh!  The  poor  creatures! 

Bernard. —  You  killed  your  parents  and  this  is  how  you  receive  the  news 
of  their  death! 

Michel. —  I  weep  for  neither  father  nor  mother,  for  I  was  dead  before 
them.  You  do  not  weep  before  a  grave  if  you  yourself  are  in  that  grave. 
Certainly  I've  always  been  a  miscreant,  but  not  to  the  extent  of  having  only 
a  pebble  in  the  place  of  a  heart.  Even  at  the  time  when  I  was  murdering 
women  and  children  I  still  had  hours  of  emotion.  I  can  tell  you  the  exact 
moment  everything  that  was  sensitive  in  me  became  suppressed.  You  see, 
you  may  say  that  the  flag  is  nothing  but  a  rag  —  rag  as  much  as  you  please, 
but  from  the  instant  I  drew  upon  it  I  realized  there  were  no  longer  for  me 
either  parents  or  friends  anywhere  upon  the  earth:  one  way  of  being  dead. 

Bernard. —  In  spite  of  myself  I  pity  you. 

Michel. —  Keep  your  pity!  I  have  no  use  for  it!  The  dead  have  a  kind 
of  happiness  that  takes  the  place  of  everything.  They  have  absolute  inde- 
pendence. I  am  free!  Not  free  like  a  citizen  of  a  country  with  legislation 
more  or  less  severe.  My  liberty  is  that  of  the  pariah  who  no  longer  respects 
nor  considers  anything!  Do  you  know  under  what  curious  circumstances 
that  first  intoxication  of  liberty  was  revealed  to  me  ? 

Bernard. —  You  have  just  said  —  it  was  when  you  first  gave  the  order 
to  fire  on  your  flag. 

Michel. — Not  at  all !  Then  I  had  only  the  sense  of  a  complete  break  with 
society.  The  idea  that  joy  could  come  out  of  that  rupture  came  much  later, 
and  in  this  way:  You  know  that  after  my  rebellion  I  continued  to  lead  for 
several  weeks  the  life  of  a  pasha;  up  to  the  day  when  my  subjects,  feeling 
I  was  no  longer  upheld  by  France,  were,  in  their  turn,  angered  and  murdered 
me.  But  they  only  half  succeeded !  Brutes  that  hack  you  up  and  see  your 
body  covered  with  a  mass  of  blood  in  which  the  whole  human  form  is  effaced 
and  then  think  the  man  annihilated!  My  body  was  left  exposed  for  hours 
under  the  broiling  sun  to  the  mercy  of  swarms  of  flies.  When  night  came,  I 
dragged  myself  far  from  the  huts.  For  months  I  lived  in  the  bush,  wan- 
dering by  night,  sleeping  by  day.  At  last,  after  having  walked  northward  a 
long,  long  time,  I  fell  upon  a  nomad  band  of  Tovaregs,  and  was  carried  off  a 
captive.  For  days  they  dragged  me  over  the  sands  attached  by  the  neck  to 
the  tail  of  a  camel.  Well,  it  was  at  that  moment  that  I  was  for  the  first  time 
drunk  with  freedom!  Yes,  with  a  rope  around  my  neck  and  the  bare  end 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

of  a  camel  for  an  horizon.  The  truth  is  liberty  is  not  without,  but  within  us, 
and  in  attempting  to  follow  the  great  strides  of  the  camel,  I  felt  breathing 
within  me  a  new  happiness  born  of  solitude. 

Bernard  (sarcastically). —  A  relative  solitude. 

Michel. —  You  are  a  great  deal  more  lonely  between  an  Arab  who  is 
lashing  you  with  a  whip  and  a  camel  jerking  you  suddenly  along,  than  you 
are  in  the  vastness  of  a  desert!  Since  that  journey  I  have  never  ceased  to 
be  at  the  mercy  of  rather  cruel  occurrences.  In  London  I  slept  under 
bridges,  my  stomach  empty,  on  the  coldest  nights.  I  was  gay!  I  am  still. 
Mr.  Renaud  has  no  mistress.  After  loving  those  who  have  been  raped,  he 
now  loves  those  who  can  be  bought.  Mr.  Renaud  has  no  friends.  Mr. 
Renaud  hasn't  even  relations.  Very  few  people  could  bear  to  lead  the  life 
led  by  Mr.  Renaud.  Some  would  die  of  melancholia.  Others  would  go 
and  bury  themselves  in  a  monastery  where  at  least  one  can  say  "  brother  " 
to  a  friar.  I,  not  only  do  I  bear  the  blow,  but  I  bear  it  with  gladness.  To 
be  overwhelmed  and  rise  afresh  with  indomitable  will  produces  hap- 
piness. 

Bernard  (sarcastically). —  A  happiness  that  consists  of  being  proud  not 
to  have  been  overcome  by  trouble. 

Michel. —  I  agree!  I  am  not  what  might  be  called  happy.  Imper- 
turbable is  more  the  term. 

Bernard. —  You —  imperturbable!  Why,  passion  bursts  forth  at  every 
word! 

Michel. —  Where  do  you  find  passion  ?  I  reach  here  a  bit  nervous  on 
account  of  a  meeting  - 

Bernard. —  Who  upset  you,  you  the  imperturbable  man!  Whom  did 
you  meet  ? 

Michel. —  Probably  the  only  thing  in  the  world  that  could   still  move 
me!     The  village  is  full  of  troops,  and  at  a  street  corner  I  suddenly  faced  it  — 
that  bit  of  tricolored  rag!     I  took  another  turn.     Oh!     Well,  drat  it!     It 
isn't  to  bore  you  with  trash  that  I  made  this  journey. 

Bernard. —  You  are  neither  son,  brother,  kindred,  nor  friend,  yet  you 
are  still  a  soldier! 

Michel. —  No,  thanks!  I  cannot  think  without  disgust  of  military 
slavery.  You  don't  understand  my  trouble. 

Bernard. —  Very  well.  Let  us  speak  of  something  else.  You  came  to 
say  something  to  me;  say  it. 

Michel. —  No,  not  now.  It  isn't  time,  or  rather  you  made  a  mistake 
not  to  have  asked  me  as  soon  as  I  put  foot  in  your  house.  I  have  no  longer 
any  family  and  you  recited  a  sermon  to  the  prodigal  son!  No  longer  a 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

country  and  you  made  me  speak  like  a  conscript.  My  mind  is  elsewhere. 
Good  by.  I'll  return.  (CHARLES  enters.) 

Charles. —  An  orderly  is  here  on  a  bicycle.  He  says  the  colonel  will 
be  here  shortly. 

Bernard  (to  CHARLES). —  Tell  madame  she  may  come  down.  (Exit 
CHARLES.)  It  is  the  colonel  who  is  to  put  up  here.  If  you  wish  to  return 
this  afternoon  I  will  be  at  your  disposal  whenever  you  wish. 

Michel. —  Very  well.     Are  you  free  at  three  o'clock  ? 

Bernard. —  Yes.     I  hear  Clotilde. 

Michel. —  Would  it  annoy  you  to  have  me  speak  to  my  sister-in-law  ? 
Of  course  if  she  does  not  know  -who  I  am. 

Bernard  (after  a  short  hesitation). —  She  believes  you  dead.  Remain 
if  you  like.  (CLOTILDE  enters,  having  changed  her  gown.} 

SCENE  X 
BERNARD,  MICHEL,  CLOTILDE 

Bernard  (to  his  wife,  after  a  vague  motion  of  introduction). —  Mr. 
Renaud.  (CLOTILDE  bows  awkwardly,  very  much  embarrassed.) 

Michel  (in  a  most  amiable  tone). —  I  have  been  living  abroad  for  so  many 
years  that  the  sight  of  the  maneuvres  which  are  of  so  much  interest  to  every 
one  is  particularly  so  to  me.  The  sight  of  French  uniforms  gives  me  a 
feeling  of  something  new. 

Clotilde. —  You  will  be  able  to  look  at  a  uniform  at  close  range;  we  are 
expecting  Colonel  Herouard  at  any  moment. 

Michel. —  Herouard!     By   Jove!     He  isn't   an   ordinary   creature! 

Clotilde. —  You  know  him  ? 

Michel. —  Personally,  no.  Where  should  I  have  had  the  opportunity  to 
meet  him  ?  By  reputation  who  does  not  know  him  ?  His  campaign  in  the 
Soudan  was  marvelous.  He  is  a  brave  man !  (The  sound  of  a  distant  band 
is  heard  intermittently.) 

Bernard. —  Listen!  A  marching  regiment,  with  a  band  leading.  All 
the  troops  have  not  yet  been  assigned.  (The  stamping  of  horse's  hoofs  is 
heard  outside,  followed  by  a  sound  of  voices.)  Eh!  What  have  we  here  ? 
(BERNARD  and  CLOTILDE  both  go  to  the  glass  door.) 

Clotilde  (reaching  it  first). —  It's  the  colonel! 

Bernard  (quickly,  behind  her). —  Is  there  some  one  there  to  hold  his 
horse  ? 

Clotilde. —  Yes,  his  orderly  is  there!  Ring  quickly  that  he  may  be 
shown  to  the  stable!  (BERNARD  runs  to  an  electric  button  on  the  left,  near 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

the  front  of  the  stage.)  The  colonel  does  not  know  where  to  go;  show  your- 
self! (BERNARD  after  ringing,  rushes  out  on  the  doorstep.  During  the  first 
part  of  the  following  scene  a  military  band  which  has  only  been  heard  inter- 
mittently now  gro^us  louder  and  finally  the  tune  can  be  distinguished.} 

SCENE  XI 

BERNARD,  MICHEL,  CLOTILDE,  HEROUARD,  then  CHARLES,  then  JEANNE, 

then  HELENE 

Bernard  (outside  on  the  doorstep  calling}. —  This  way,  Colonel! 

Clotilde  (behind  the  door,  hastily  and  without  turning  round,  to  MICHEL, 
who  stands  with  his  arms  crossed  near  the  glass  panels,  not  far  behind  her). — 
Should  a  woman  say  '  Colonel,'  or  '  My  Colonel,'  according  to  French 
custom  ? 

Michel  (roughly). —  I  don't  know.  (A  shadow  passes  over  CLOTILDE'S 
face,  but  she  smiles  again  immediately  and  moves  to  the  doorstep,  while  BER- 
NARD, from  without,  is  making  himself  polite  to  the  COLONEL.) 

Clotilde  (in  a  hospitable  and  sympathetic  tone). —  Colonel,  do  come  in! 
It  is  so  hot  outside!  (The  COLONEL  appears,  in  full  uniform.  He  salutes 
in  military  fashion,  heels  together,  then  shakes  CLOTILDE'S  hand,  which  is 
outstretched.  BERNARD  enters  behind  him.  At  the  same  time  CHARLES 
appearing  from  within  stops  near  BERNARD,  awaiting  orders.) 

Bernard  (to  CHARLES). —  What  is  it? 

Charles. —  Did  not  monsieur  ring  ? 

Bernard. —  You're  right.  I  had  forgotten.  Show  the  colonel's  orderly 
the  way  to  the  stable.  (Pointing  to  the  front  door.}  That  way  —  quick f 
(Raising  his  voice.}  And  tell  them  to  take  great  care  of  the  horse.  (The 
servant  goes  out  by  the  garden.} 

Clotilde. —  Such  a  beautiful  creature!  I  was  looking  at  it  a  while  ago. 
So  high  strung  —  so  —  the  eyes  of  a  gazelle!  You  must  know,  Colonel,  I 
am  mad  about  everything  military.  I  passed  a  portion  of  the  night  at  this 
window  with  my  daughter.  We  could  not  drag  ourselves  away  from  the 
sight  of  battle.  On  what  side  was  your  regiment  ? 

Herouard. —  There;  you  can  see  very  well  from  here  the  spot  we  de- 
fended nearly  all  the  time.  (He  takes  a  step  toward  the  gallery  and  comes  face 
to  face  with  MICHEL.  He  stops,  sees  the  scarred  face  of  MICHEL  and  bows.} 

Clotilde  (obliged  to  introduce  MICHEL  and  with  visible  reluctance}. — Mr. 
Renaud.  (Michel  returns  a  swift  bow  to  the  COLONEL:  the  COLONEL  makes 
a  motion  to  offer  his  hand  when  CLOTILDE  passes  quickly  between  the  two  men 
and  drags  the  COLONEL  to  the  window.}  Where  did  you  say  it  was,  Colonel  ? 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

Herouard. —  From  three  to  five  in  the  morning  my  sharpshooters  were 
stationed  along  the  hedge  of  those  grounds,  half  way  up  the  coast  above 
Jossigny.  You  see,  to  the  left  of  the  big  white  house!  (The  military  band, 
which  for  the  last  few  minutes  has  not  been  heard,  suddenly  bursts  out  in  an 
inspiriting  march.) 

Bernard. —  How  does  a  regiment  happen  to  be  here  ? 
Herouard  (laughing). —  Rest  assured,  Sir  Deputy,  you  have  but  the 
colonel  to  house.  But  when  one  receives  the  colonel  one  also  puts  up  the 
flag.  It  is  a  company  of  the  i7Oth  which,  headed  by  the  band,  is  escorting 
the  flag  to  your  house.  To-morrow,  with  the  same  formality,  they  will 
return  for  it.  (JEANNE,  entering  by  way  of  the  gallery,  runs  hurriedly  to  the 
middle  of  the  room.} 

Jeanne  (out  of  breath). —  They  are  bringing  the  flag.  The  colonel's 
orderly  says  that  —  (She  perceives  she  is  standing  before  the  COLONEL  and 
stops,  embarrassed.} 

Herouard  (smiling,  bows  before  her). —  Your  mother  told  me  that  you 
take  the  utmost  interest  in  military  operations.  I  see  she  did  not  exaggerate. 
As  an  officer,  permit  me  to  congratulate  you.  (He  extends  his  hand,  in 
which  she  places  her  own,  and  leaving  the  COLONEL  she  finds  herself  beside 
her  father.) 

Jeanne  (to  BERNARD,  in  an  undertone). —  I  might  do  well  to  call  Miss 
Froment.  She  was  sorry  to  have  missed  the  battle  in  the  night. 

Bernard. —  Yes,  do  so.  (Jeanne  rushes  out  quickly.  The  band  has 
been  steadily  approaching.  It  stations  itself  before  the  door,  where  it  stops 
playing  suddenly.  JEANNE  returns,  red  and  out  of  breath,  followed  by  HELENE. 
Jeanne  (laughing  and  pointing  to  HELENE). —  I  met  her  on  the  stairs. 
She  could  understand  nothing  of  all  this  noise,  and  was  seeking  a  spot  from 
which  she  could  see  the  assault  upon  the  house.  (Moving  to  the  front  door.} 
Can  one  look  ? 

Herouard. —  Why  not  ?  I  am  proud  to  present  my  men  to  you.  Just 
look  at  them  after  an  eight-hour  march !  (Saying  thus  the  COLONEL  motions 
to  JEANNE,  and  then  to  HELENE  to  come  out  on  the  doorstep.  CLOTILDE  starts 
to  follow.  As  soon  as  she  has  glanced  outside  she  returns  hastily  to  her 
husband.} 

Clotilde. —  There  is  a  crowd!  The  whole  population  is  there.  Show 
yourself.  It  will  have  an  admirable  effect. 

Bernard. —  At  once  —  (looking  around  him). —  A  hat!  (Hastily  run- 
ning about  the  room.}  —  I  must  have  a  hat,  quick! 

CLOTILDE  (hunting  with  him). —  I  do  not  see  any.  Why  not  go  hat- 
less  ?  It  isn't  the  kind  of  weather  to  give  you  a  cold. 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

j 

Bernard  (exasperated}. —  To  the  devil  with  colds.     It  is  to  salute  the 
flag!     (Detaching  his  syllables.}     To  sa-lute  the  flag. 

Michel  (going  to  him]. —  Here  is  mine.  (He  hands  him  his  hat.} 
Bernard  (seizing  it  feverishly}. —  Never  mind !  Thank  you !  (He  puts 
it  on  and  rushes  out.  During  the  preceding  remarks  various  military  orders 
were  being  given,  the  last  distinctly:  Right  shoulder.  Shift  arms!  Then  a 
pause,  while  the  captain  salutes  with  his  sword  the  flag  that  faces  the  band. 
Then  in  a  loud  clear  voice  the  command  is  given:  '  To  the  flag!  '  Clarions 
and  drums  beat  and  ring.  The  band  plays.  At  the  very  instant  the  march 
bursts  forth,  BERNARD  appears  on  the  doorstep.  He  pushes  aside  those 
present  and  well  in  sight  of  the  crowd  he  is  seen  removing  his  hat  with  a  large 
and  solemn  sweep,  and  holds  it  aloof  all  the  time  the  band  plays.  It  ceases. 
The  honors  have  been  done.  The  flag  bearer,  escorted  by  two  under-officers, 
starts  up  the  steps.  As  he  passes  beside  BERNARD,  the  latter,  in  a  loud  voice,, 
cries:  '  It  is  the  pride  of  France  that  is  crossing  my  threshold !  '  Bravos  by 
the  crowd.  Numerous  shouts  of '  Hurrah  for  the  army !  Hurrah  for  France !' 
MICHEL,  during  the  saluting  of  the  flag,  has  remained  alone,  half  seated  upon  a 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  apartment,  his  back  to  the  front  door,  arms  crossed, 
looking  around  vaguely.  On  the  arrival  of  the  flag  bearer,  he  gives  a  start, 
turns  suddenly  and  finds  himself  in  the  presence  of  the  flag.  The  officer  bear- 
ing it,  uncertain  as  to  which  way  to  proceed,  and  finding  himself  still  far  from 
those  who  have  been  delayed  without  by  the  crowd,  addresses  MICHEL. 

SCENE  XII 
The  same.     THE  FLAG  BEARER 

The  Flag  Bearer  (to  MICHEL). —  Excuse  me,  sir  — the  colonel's  room  - 
which  way  do  I  go  ? 

Michel  (roughly}. —  I  don't  belong  to  the  house. 

Bernard  (quickly}. —  This  way  —  they  will  show  you  (calling}.  Jeanne ! 
Jeanne!  Show  monsieur  the  colonel's  room. 

*Jeanne. —  If  you  wTill  come,  sir  —  (She  moves  away,  followed  by  the 
FLAG  BEARER). 

Herouard  (laughing,  to  JEANNE,  who  disappears}. —  It  is  for  the  sake 
of  the  country,  mademoiselle! 

(MlCHEL,  while  attention  is  concentrated  on  the  flag,  rushes  to  the  garden 
like  a  madman.  His  departure  is  remarked  by  none  of  the  assistants  except 
HELENE,  against  whom  he  pushes  in  his  haste.  During  this  time  the  COLONEL 
discourses.}  The  flag,  in  a  room,  is  a  glorious  companion,  but  rather  in  the 
way,  for  we  have  orders  to  rest  the  pole  horizontally  across  the  back  of  two- 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

chairs  in  such  a  way  that  the  material  falls  vertically  without  making  any 
creases.  All  this  takes  up  a  lot  of  room. 

Bernard. —  Why  not  place  it  in  a  corner,  quite  simply  ? 

Herouard. —  Out  of  economy.  That  it  may  last  as  long  as  possible. 
The  principal  object  is  to  prevent  creases.  (The  FLAG  BEARER  returns, 
crosses  the  hall  without  speaking,  joins  the  two  subofficers  remaining  by  the 
door  and  leaves  with  them.  Immediately  afterward  military  commands  are 
given.  The  band  departs,  the  regular  march  of  their  retreating  steps  being 
heard.) 

Clotilde  (to  BERNARD,  in  an  undertone). —  I  no  longer  see  Mr.  Renaud. 

Bernard. —  What!  (Looking  about  him.)  Gone!  Pah!  (Pointing 
to  the  hat  which  is  <till  in  his  hand.)  His  hat!  (Giving  it  to  JEANNE.) 
There!  Run  quickly  to  the  servant's  hall  and  have  a  man  on  a  bicycle 
despatched  with  it. 

Clotilde. —  But  if  he  went  by  the  cliffs  ? 

Bernard. —  Not  at  all.     He  will  be  found  behind  the  soldiers. 

Herouard. —  You  are  speaking  of  Mr.  Renaud  ? 

Bernard. —  Yes  —  we  were  surprised  —  he  has  departed! 

Herouard  (suddenly). —  What  is  he? 

Bernard. —  Why  —  an  old  friend.     He  comes  rarely. 

Herouard. — Excuse  my  indiscretion.  I  did  not  ask  because  —  an  old 
officer,  isn't  he  ? 

Bernard  (deeply  annoyed). —  He!  What  an  idea!  He  is  the  most 
pacific  of  men! 

Herouard. —  Who  has  received  bullets  full  in  the  face!  If  he  isn't  an 
old  officer  he  is  certainly  in  bad  luck! 

ACT  II 

SCENE  I 

MICHEL,  HELENE. 

HELENE  seated  in  the  gallery.  She  holds  a  book  which  she  does  not  read 
L.,td  looks  out  dreamily  to  sea.  MICHEL  arrives  at  the  left.  He  approaches 
HELENE  noiselessly.  Suddenly  she  realizes  that  a  man  is  behind  her  and  is 
watching  her,  then  she  rises  with  a  little  cry  of  fright  and  recognizes  MICHEL.) 

Michel. —  As  frightened  as  that  ? 

Helene  (half  laughing,  half  gasping). —  I  was  not  expecting  - 

Michel  (calmly). —  Even  when  expecting  it,  the  effect  of  my  mug  is  not 
spoiled.  (HELENE  endeavorsto  move  away.)  Well!  Where  are  you  going  r 

Helene. —  To  let  Mr.  Prinson  know  that  you  are  here. 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

Michel. —  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  just  came  into  the  garden 
on  the  side  that  has  no  gate,  and  while  I  was  vaulting  the  fence  he  was  look- 
ing at  me  from  an  upper  window. 

Helene. —  Then  you  did  not  come  by  the  high  road  ? 

Michel. —  No,  across  country;  I  have  time  to  lose.  (A  silence.}  What 
did  they  say  this  morning  when  they  noticed  that  I  had  gone  off  without  my 
hat? 

Helene. —  Without  your  hat  ? 

Michel. —  Ha!  Ha!  You  didn't  take  in  the  trick  about  the  hat? 
That's  good;  that's  a  sign  that  no  one  noticed  my  sudden  disappearance. 

Helene. —  Yes  —  but  they  did  a  little  —  the  colonel  asked  if  you  weren't 
an  old  officer. 

Michel  (mutters  between  his  teeth]. —  Ah!  He  has  an  eye,  the  wretch. 
(A  silence.}  What  did  they  answer  ? 

Helene.—  'No.'     Of  course. 

Michel.—  '  Of  course,'  amuses  me!     Why,  of  course  ? 

Helene. —  I  spoke  without  thinking,  I  assure  you! 

Michel  (sarcastically). —  I  doubt  it!     Well,  what  is  your  real  opinion  - 
an  officer  or  not  ? 

Helene. —  I  went  into  the  convent  eight  years  ago,  when  my  mother 
died;  I  came  out  of  it  last  evening  for  the  first  time.  What  can  I  know  r 

Michel. —  Eight  years  in  a  box  without  vacations,  nor  getting  off  ? 

Helene. —  Not  a  day! 

Michel. —  That's  pretty  smart!  Why  was  it  precisely  yesterday  that 
you  were  let  out  ?  (HELENE  gazes  at  him  in  surprise  and  does  not  reply.} 
Very  well  —  I  am  meddling  in  things  that  do  not  concern  me,  eh  ?  (Becom- 
ing animated.}  Eh!  Go  to!  Say  it  to  my  face!  I  rather  like  things  sent 
me  full  in  the  face. 

Helene. —  How  can  I  interest  you  ? 

Michel. —  You  do  not  interest  me.  (Striking  his  chest.}  But  one 
creature  in  the  world  can  boast  of  interesting  me.  And  the  bit  of  news  I 
ask  might  be  of  use  to  him.  Do  you  give  a  hang ? 

Helene. —  I  should  be  glad  to  be  of  service  to  you. 

Michel. —  Ah!  Little  lady,  that  is  a  pretty  speech  for  which  you  will 
be  at  once  rewarded.  I  am  going  to  make  you  a  present  —  a  real  present, 
since  you  are  blessed  with  teeth  and  nails.  Did  you  know  that  Bernard 
Prinson  had  a  brother  ? 

Helene. —  Yes. 

Michel. —  It  was  your  mother  who  told  you,  eh  ?  When  you  were  a 
hild! 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

Helene. —  She!  No,  never  did  she  mention  the  name  of  any  Prinson 
before  me,  neither  deputy  nor  otherwise.  It  was  the  mother  superior  at  the 
convent  at  which  I  was  educated.  Once  she  asked  me  if  the  deputy  who 
paid  my  expenses  was  related  to  an  officer  who  after  having  rebelled  was  mas- 
sacred by  his  accomplices.  By  my  expression  she  realized  I  knew  nothing 
about  it,  so  she  related  all  the  facts. 

Michel. —  All!  In  a  few  words,  I  dare  say!  All!  Oh!  I  wish  I 
had  them  in  the  bush,  those  wretches  who  terrorize  little  girls  with  their  bogey- 
man stories!  Yes,  in  the  bush  to  teach  them!  Well,  then,  you  know  in 
general  what  he  did,  this  brother  of  Bernard  Prinson!  See  here,  I  am  that 
brother!  I  am  Michel  Prinson!  (He  stops,  waiting  for  some  sign  of  re- 
proach or  terror.  HELENE,  quite  calm,  remains  with  eyes  fixed  upon  him.) 
A  murderer!  Worse  than  a  murderer!  Should  I  mention  my  name,  at  the 
end  of  the  world,  no  matter  where,  they  will  move  away  from  me  as  from 
the  plague.  You  cannot  fathom  how  low  I  have  fallen. 

Helene  (slowly). —  On  the  contrary,  I  understand  better  than  any  one. 

Michel. —  And  you  listen  to  me  —  as  good  as  gold!  Don't  I  horrify 
you  ? 

Helene. —  Not  at  all!     Rebellion  is  of  all  crimes  the  one  I  most  excuse. 

Michel  (laughing). —  I  laugh  because  you  speak  of  crimes  with  the 
assurance  of  an  old  magistrate.  See  here!  Your  weakness  for  rebellion 
is  appalling!  At  your  convent  did  you  feel  like  cutting  the  sisters'  throats  ? 

Helene. —  Oh!     Come  now! 

Michel. —  Then,  whom  do  you  hate  ? 

Helene. —  I  don't  know.     Everybody. 

Michel. —  You  mean  the  organization  of  things;  society.  The  word 
makes  you  open  your  eyes!  I'll  bet  that  your  teachers  didn't  use  it  often! 

Helene. —  Never!  Yes,  I  do  bear  much  ill  will  to  society.  It  made  me 
grow  up  in  prison. 

Michel. —  Well!  Thanks  to  me  you  have  the  chance  not  to  return. 
I  pass  over  my  secret  to  you  with  full  liberty  to  shout  it  out  on  the  house  tops. 
I  live  the  life  of  a  foreigner  —  I  call  myself  Renaud  —  I  associate ';with 
human  beings  only  at  an  eating  house  or  a  tavern  —  even  then  not  often! 
If  a  little  girl  starts  to  tell  in  France  that  Michel  Prinson  isn't  dead,  how 
can  that  trouble  my  digestion  ?  My  brother,  however,  it  not  such  a  philo- 
sopher. He  is  a  politician,  therefore  a  trembler!  He  quakes  at  the  very 
notion  of  my  resurrection.  If  ever  you  wish  to  render  those  who  forgot  you 
in  a  convent  for  eight  years,  more  attentive,  I  furnish  you  with  the  means. 
Nice,  am  I  not  ?  Will  you  still  hesitate  to  explain  to  me  why  it  was  yester- 
day, particularly  yesterday,  and  not  two  months  ago  or  a  week  hence/that 
you  were  delivered  from  your  long  captivity  ? 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

> 

Helene. —  I  myself  have  wondered;  I  can  find  no  motive.  But  one 
thing  did  strike  me  and  that  is  that  Mr.  Prinson  advised  both  his  daughter 
and  myself  to  be  very  nice  and  confiding  with  you.  He  seemed  to  address 
himself  especially  to  me. 

Michel  (to  himself). —  Exactly!     Exactly! 

Helene. —  You  see,  I  obey;   I  am  confiding. 

Michel. —  And  nice,  very  nice!  (A  silence.}  Did  you  care  for  the 
convent  ? 

Helene. —  No. 

Michel. —  Such  a  stupid  question.  You  said  '  prison.'  Aside  from 
that,  your  teachers  must  have  been  good  enough  sort  of  people  ? 

Helene. —  Yes. 

Michel. —  You  could  find  comrades  to  play  with,  laugh  with,  when  need- 
ful argue  with 

Helene. —  Not  always.  My  comrades  had  families.  I,  as  I  told  you, 
had  lost  my  mother.  As  to  my  father,  do  not  let  us  speak  of  him,  it  is  better 
so!  During  vacation  time  I  was  left  alone. 

Michel. —  Then  is  was  ennui  —  gloomy  ennui! 

Helene. —  Oh !  very  gloomy.  Especially  when  I  was  little.  To  wander 
alone  for  six  weeks  in  that  huge,  deserted  school  seemed  frightful  to  me! 
The  very  time  which  brought  so  much  joy  to  the  other  children  made  me  weep 
with  sadness.  When  I  got  older  I  learned  to  conquer  my  state  of  mind 
rather  better,  but  I  was  no  happier  thereby. 

Michel. —  What  worried  you  later  ? 

Helene. —  I  suffered  at  being  educated  by  charity. 

Michel  (sarcastically}. —  For  the  charity  done  unto  you! 

Helene. —  It  was  probably  because  I  could  not  feel  touched  by  it  that 
it  became  unbearable!  I  succeeded  in  getting  rid  of  it! 

Michel. —  How  ? 

Helene. —  When  before  taking  me  away  Mr.  Prinson  wished  to  settle 
for  my  expenses  I  said  coldly  to  him:  'No,  you  owe  nothing.  I  have 
reached  an  age  no  longer  to  live  on  charity.  For  two  years  I  looked  after 
the  younger  ones  in  exchange  for  my  indebtedness.  It  was  true,  and  I  had 
prepared  an  enormous  joy  for  myself  when  the  day  came  to  make  my  little 
speech  

Michel. —  Did  it  create  a  sensation  ? 

Helene. —  Not  in  the  least.  Your  brother  smiled  and  spoke  of  some- 
thing else. 

Michel. —  The  beast!  It  isn't  to  be  complimentary,  but  I  can't  help 
noticing  that  our  returns  are  much  alike.  In  order  to  owe  no  man  anything 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

you  \vashed  brats'  faces,  and  I  swept  street  crossings;  two  similar  occu- 
pations. Soon  you  will  learn  to  your  sorrow  that  when  you  earn  your  bread 
there  is  something  else  lacking.  One  is  obliged  to  fight  for  happiness  inch 
by  inch.  When  I  returned  from  Africa  I  first  considered  carefully  how  not 
to  die  of  hunger,  and  after  that,  drat  it!  I  had  to  stave  off  boredom  exactly 
like  a  child  at  large  in  a  great  deserted  school. 

Helene. —  I  know  a  little  girl  who  more  than  once  leaned  out  of  the 
dormitory  window  with  the  temptation  of  breaking  herself  to  pieces  on  the 
pavement  below.  But  they  painted  such  a  gruesome  picture  to  her  of  the 
fires  of  hell  that,  although  without  much  belief  in  it,  still  she  did  not  dare  risk 
an  eternity  of  suffering.  Since  our  natures  are  alike,  you  must  have  felt  the 


same 


Michel  (laughing). —  More  or  less! 

Helene. —  Then  hell  gave  you  also  food  for  thought  ? 

Michel. —  Oh!  As  for  me,  the  devil  doesn't  frighten  me!  No!  Each 
time  I  was  on  the  point  of  blowing  out  my  brains  what  held  me  back  was  a 
kind  of  hope  —  Do  not  ask  me  what  I  expected.  In  my  mouth  the  idea 
would  seem  simply  absurd.  Yet,  it  decided  me  to  go  on  living.  And  so, 
no  matter  how,  on  I'd  go.  If  I  were  to  tell  you  that  on  a  Christmas  night 
when  I  was  feeling  particularly  forsaken  in  the  midst  of  so  many  joyous 
people,  I  ordered  for  my  dinner  an  omelet  with  rum,  not  because  I  care 
especially  for  the  dish,  but  because  that  little  flame  dancing  before  my  eyes 
seemed  to  live.  It  was  company, —  comforting.  One  is  idiotic  sometimes! 

Helene. —  I  don't  call  that  being  idiotic. 

Michel. —  True;  it  isn't  if  it  can  get  you  out  of  your  trouble!  Look 
here!  Since  you  understand  the  charm  of  that  small  flame,  I  am  going  to 
teach  you  another  way  of  getting  companionship.  You  invent  characters 
and  write  at  their  dictation.  It  is  my  greatest  resource!  Those  people 
speak,  act,  love,  quarrel,  make  up,  all  beneath  my  eyes.  I  burn  with  their 
intense  passion.  For  weeks  I  weep,  I  laugh,  I  suffer,  I  hope  with  them.  It 
is  more  complicated,  more  ridiculous  than  the  omelet:  but  like  the  omelet 
it  is  company. 

Helene. —  If  you  write  for  weeks,  in  the  end  you  must  have  a  real  play  ? 

Michel. —  No!  I  would  not  have  the  art  or  the  patience  to  finish  such  a 
work.  Michel  Prinson,  playing  the  guitar  by  moonlight  and  showing  oft" 
marionettes!  It  is  only  a  pastime,  nothing  more.  I  open  the  door  to 
phantoms  and  to  compel  myself  to  listen  to  them  I  take  down  their  words. 
Perhaps  if  I  disciplined  my  manikins,  if  I  attempted  to  shut  them  up  in  a 
drama,  I  would  frighten  off  the  last  friends  that  still  deign  to  visit  me.  (A 
pause.)  How  did  the  idea  of  a  play  occur  to  you  ? 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 
i 

Helene  (laughing). —  At  the  convent  I  was  an  actress!  For  instance, 
on  the  feast  of  Saint  Sophia,  patron  saint  of  the  school,  they  played  '  The  Son 
of  the  Prince.'  I  took  the  part  of  a  sorceress,  a  horrible  part,  which  they  did 
not  wish  to  give  to  the  daughter  of  rich  parents. 

Michel. —  '  The  Son  of  the  Prince.'  What  black  irony  it  must  be!  in 
spite  of  that,  was  there  applause  ? 

Helene. —  A  great  deal. 

Michel  (with  shining  eyes}. —  What!  When  you  finished  your  tirades 
and  a  thunder  of  applause  greated  you  throughout  the  hall  —  didn't  you  feel 
a  bit  of  a  thrill  there  ?  (He  puts  his  hand  on  his  heart.} 

Helene. —  No  thunder  of  applause  greeted  me.  Characters  that  are 
loathed  receive  none. 

Michel. —  Too  bad!  You  lost  the  chance  of  making  the  acquaintance 
of  the  one  thing  that  is  worth  the  trouble  of  dying  for. 

Helene. —  What's  that  ?     You  speak  as  if  you  knew  it  well. 

Michel. —  Better  than  merely  knowing  it!  I  touched  it,  really  touched 
it!  It  was  on  my  return  from  my  first  African  campaign.  In  the  papers 
and  reviews  they  were  not  afraid  to  print  that  I  had  a  genius  for  war.  With- 
out money,  almost  disowned  by  my  superiors,  with  half-savage  followers,  I 
had  discovered  a  new  world.  I  arrived  with  a  reputation  ahead  of  me  for 
the  wildest  bravery!  To  welcome  me,  the  Geographical  Society,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  the  government  organized  a  great  reception  in  the  big  hall  of  the 
Trocadero.  The  president  of  the  Republic  was  there,  and  around  him  min- 
isters, generals,  scientists,  artists  —  everybody  who  was  anybody  in  the 
country.  When  I  entered  a  religious  silence  fell.  They  wanted  to  see! 
And  suddenly  they  saw.  Upon  the  platform  a  pale  young  man,  with  the 
scar  on  his  forehead  you  can  still  see  there  now  (he  points  to  a  white  line 
across  his  brow.}  Only  it  was  fresh  —  it  shone  like  a  red  cockade.  Then 
out  of  that  human  furnace  full  of  a  seething  fever  engendered  by  me,  a  great 
roar  burst  forth.  My  name!  On  those  millions  of  lips  nothing  but  my 
name!  At  that  moment  I  was  far  from  earth.  An  eagle  of  the  mountain 
tops,  the  eagle  bearer  of  the  thunderbolt  had  swooped  down  upon  me  and 
had  carried  me  with  one  great  beat  of  its  wing,  so  high  that  beneath  my  eyes 
the  crowd  sank  into  an  abyss,  out  of  which  forever  one  name  mounted  - 
mine!  (Helene  bursts  into  tears.}  Well!  What!  You  are  weeping? 

Helene. —  You  have  been  all  that  —  you! 

Michel. —  Yes,  as  you  see  me.  And  the  soul  I  had  on  that  day,  in  spite 
of  my  fall,  I  can  find  again  within  me. 

Helene  (sobbing). —  I  can  feel  it,  indeed !     That  is  what  makes  me  weep ! 

Michel.—  Really  ? 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

Helene. —  It  makes  me  understand  how  much  you  are  to  be  pitied. 

Michel. —  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  thought  that  there  was  a  creature  living 
who  would  be  touched  by  any  of  my  ills. 

Helene. —  Oh  yes,  believe  it! 

Michel. —  I  can  then  before  I  die  share  in  the  emotion  of  some  one  else! 
Perhaps  for  one  minute  be  in  sympathy  with  another  human  being!  And 
that  because  a  long  time  ago  I  touched  that  incomparable  thing  we  were 
speaking  about! 

Helene. —  At  least  tell  me  the  name  of  that  thing  ? 

Michel. —  Why,  glory,  little  stupid! 

Helene. —  Glory!  I  supposed  it  only  existed  in  fabulous  epochs.  At 
the  time  of  Caesar  and  Alexander.  As  to  fancying  that  I  should  meet  with 
it  in  life !  It's  the  first  time  I  ever  thought  of  it ! 

Michel. —  At  your  age  I  had  already  started  in  pursuit  of  it.  She  it 
was  whom  I  saw  shining  at  the  end  of  all  my  tramps  in  the  wilds;  and  on 
the  day  when  a  fool  came  to  plant  himself  between  me  and  her,  I  crushed 
him!  Yes,  it  was  from  longing  to  be  too  great  that  I  fell  so  low.  But  there 
is  nothing  to  prove  that  I  shall  not  rebound  all  the  higher.  Here,  my  child, 
you  asked  why  I  didn't  blow  my  brains  out.  Solely  because  I  undertook 
to  transform  my  disgrace  into  glory.  (Pointing  to  the  beach  hidden  from  the 
spectators.)  See  those  people  at  our  feet.  So  small  that  they  look  no  larger 
than  rats.  They  are  snail  pickers,  seekers  after  wreckage,  eaters  of  rotten 
fish!  Well!  In  appearance  they  are  much  nearer  to  glory  than  I  am.  In 
spite  of  that  I  shall  have  it.  (Perceiving  his  brother,  who  has  just  entered 
the  gallery  and  is  watching  him,  as  well  as  his  companion,  with  lively  curi- 
osity.) Here  is  my  illustrious  brother. 

SCENE  II 
HELENE,  MICHEL,  BERNARD 

Bernard. —  May  one  hear  of  what  you  are  talking  so  intently  ? 

Michel. —  I  am  giving  this  young  girl  a  performance.  We  were  look- 
ing up  recipes  for  driving  away  boredom.  I  was  boasting  of  the  charm  of 
day  dreams,  and  I  awoke  to  find  myself  dreaming  aloud. 

Helene. —  Such  a  beautiful  dream! 

Bernard. —  Well,  then,  I  don't  happen  to  have  come  at  the  wrong  time, 
since  I  am  able  to  suggest  a  means  of  diversion.  Helene,  my  wife  wishes 
you  to  be  told  that  she  and  my  daughter  are  going  to  tea  at  Mme.  Renty's. 
The  young  officers  of  the  lyoth  will  be  there.  There  will  be  dancing.  It 
will  be  very  gay.  These  ladies  are  about  to  go,  if  you  care  to  join  them 
you  had  better  start  at  once. 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 
> 

Helene  (glancing  at  her  skirt). —  With  my  boarding  school  gown  I  look 
like  I  know  not  what! 

Bernard. —  Oh,  but  they  will  give  you  a  chance  to  change,  by  Jove! 

Helene. —  I  have  nothing  else  to  put  on 

Bernard. —  If  that's  all,  my  daughter  will  lend  you  whatever  you  want 
to  make  yourself  beautiful. 

Helene. —  Frankly,  I'd  rather  go  togged  out  as  I  am  —  but  I  am  not  in 
the  mood  and  I  shall  remain  - 

Michel. —  Are  you  shy  ? 

Helene. —  Give  me  a  little  time  to  accustom  myself  and  I  will  become 
very  bold.  To-day  I  still  feel  strange.  I  would  arrive  there  like  an  owl 
dragged  out  of  its  hole  into  the  sunshine  —  it  struts  about  first  on  one  foot 
and  then  on  the  other,  rolling  great  eyes  around. 

Bernard  (laughing}. —  Such  a  picture  resembles  you  tremendously! 

Michel. —  You  did  not  observe  owls  in  the  convent. 

Helene. —  No,  my  observation  of  owls  dates  from  my  early  childhood. 
My  mother  had  retired  into  the  country  where  she  was  making  a  tolerably 
good  living  —  she  was  the  village  dressmaker.  In  the  attic  of  the  house  in 
which  we  boarded  were  always  a  number  of  owls.  When  I  was  good,  to 
reward  me,  I  was  taken  to  look  at  them;  when  I  was  naughty,  to  punish  me, 
I  was  locked  in  with  them. 

Bernard. —  In  point  of  ingenuity  it  almost  equalled  the  invention  of 
heaven  or  hell.  But  excuse  me!  I  shock  you.  A  young  girl  educated  by 
nuns! 

Helene. —  Oh!     I  am  not  very  devout! 

Michel  (laughing  to  HELENE). — Don't  climb  up  your  tree!  Not  having 
yet  had  the  opportunity  to  observe  you  he  invents  anything  to  loosen  your 
tongue! 

Bernard. —  Too  much  wit,  Mr.  Renaud! 

Helene  (laughing  heartily  and  ready  to  clap  her  hands  like  a  joyful  child}. 
-  Monsieur  Renaud!  You  throw  out  that  name  with  conviction! 

Bernard. —  I  do  not  throw  it  out  —  I  call  Renaud  '  Renaud.'  Why 
are  you  laughing  ?  (Looking  at  MICHEL.)  What  does  she  know  ? 

Helene. —  Everything  (pointing  to  MICHEL).  He  makes  no  secret  of  it, 
and  I  am  exploding! 

Michel. —  Oh !  the  little  scamp !  Not  a  cent's  worth  of  patience  —  a 
type  I  know! 

Bernard  (to  MICHEL). —  You  — we  are  going  to  settle  that  business  at 
once! 

Helene. —  Shall  I  go  ? 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

Bernard. —  On  the  contrary,  remain,  in  case  you  might  be  needed. 
(Motioning  to  the  gallery.}  You  will  be  comfortable  over  there.  What  I 
have  to  say  will  not  take  long.  (HELENE  goes  over  to  the  gallery  and  sits 
down.  Scarcely  has  she  moved  away  before  the  conversation  begins  again 
between  the  two  men.}  So  you  let  her  know  who  you  are  ? 

Michel. —  Why,  yes!     I  did. 

Bernard. —  With  the  intention  of  taking  charge  of  her  ? 

Michel. —  You  are  joking!  I  told  her  you  are  my  brother,  without 
adding  that  she  is  my  daughter. 

Bernard. —  The  very  thing  that  could  annoy  me  and  not  cause  you  the 
least  inconvenience.  Decidedly,  you  mean  war  ? 

Michel. —  Oh!  Not  at  all.  You  will  have  proof  of  it  when  I  tell  you 
the  motive  for  my  journey. 

Bernard. —  Why  tell  her  your  real  name  ? 

Michel. —  Why  put  me  in  her  presence  ? 

Bernard. —  I  should  have  driven  her  from  my  house,  I  suppose,  to 
make  room  for  you  ? 

Michel. —  It  would  have  been  enough  not  to  have  removed  her  from  the 
convent  where  she  was,  even  yesterday!  Who  obliged  you  to  bring  her 
suddenly  to  your  house  ?  In  other  years  you  did  not  give  her  even  an  hour's 
vacation,  and  here  you  are  giving  her  one  before  the  prizes  are  distributed. 
You  are  in  such  haste  to  get  her  on  the  train  that  you  don't  even  take  time 
to  buy  her  a  gown. 

Bernard. —  Give  gowns  yourself  then,  to  your  daughter! 

Michel. —  You  are  so  remarkably  charitable  that  one  remains  lost  in 
admiration  with  one's  hands  in  one's  pockets  watching  you  empty  yours. 
Answer  my  question.  What  spurred  you  so  ?  (A  pause.}  Eh!  Tell  me, 
you  schemer!  My  return!  There  is  certainly  some  link  between  my 
presence  and  Helene's  arrival. 

Bernard. —  And  what  of  that  ? 

Michel. —  What  of  that  ?  I  might  ask  some  explanation,  but  pah!  If 
you  thought  of  fooling  me,  it  is  more  yourself  you  have  fooled.  You  are  a 
schemer,  you,  a  man  who  leaves  nothing  to  chance!  I  am  impulsive,  capa- 
ble of  putting  my  skin  at  the  mercy  of  a  stranger  wrhose  face  pleases  me.  If 
I  talked,  whose  fault  is  it  ?  The  girl  seemed  rather  nice  and  I  enjoyed 
pumping  her!  Come  now,  none  of  this  is  very  serious;  only  your  manner 
of  throwing  my  daughter  at  my  head  didn't  suit  me,  and  when  I  am  attacked 
I  have  rather  brutal  reactions. 

Bernard. —  There  is  the  real  truth  out!  One  might  have  fancied  the 
charm  of  that  young  girl  had  wrung  your  secret  from  you.  Sweet  illusion. 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 
> 

A  trifle  irritates  you  and  without  even  verifying  whether  I  have  the  smallest 
cause  of  complaint  against  you,  you  immediately  give  me  great  cause  for 
worry  —  It  is  your  way!  You  treat  me  as  you  once  treated  France! 

Michel. —  Yes,  old  man,  I  do  you  that  honor!  You;  France,  a  fly 
buzzing  about  my  nose  —  so  long  as  it's  outside  of  me  —  pooh ! 

Bernard. —  It  is  monstrous. 

Michel. —  Exactly,  I  am  a  monster!  You  couldn't  pay  me  a  finer  com- 
pliment! Monsters  alone  have  strength  enough  to  push  egotism  as  far  as 
greatness.  They  are  giants  among  the  idiots  and  cowards  that  form  the 
human  flock. 

Bernard. —  For  you  every  good  man,  or  simply  an  inoffensive  one,  is 
then  an  idiot  or  a  coward  ? 

Michel. —  That's  exactly  it. 

Bernard. —  What  am  I,  then  ? 

Michel. —  Oh!  certainly  not  an  idiot!  This  morning  while  you  were 
bobbing  to  the  flag,  I  felt  like  strangling  you,  because  I  have  particular  ideas 
about  that  thing;  I  send  bullets  at  it,  but  I  don't  care  to  have  it  fooled  with! 
I  remember  what  a  local  paper  said,  which  I  read  yesterday  while  I  was 
eating  my  dinner  at  the  inn:  '  In  Bernard's  speech  the  echo  of  Michel's 
guns  was  heard.'  That  is  truly  inspired!  We  are,  you  and  I,  people  who 
draw  on  the  nation.  One  gingerly,  the  other  ferociously — two  monsters! 

Bernard. —  Only  one,  if  you  please.  I  have,  indeed,  everything  need- 
ful to  be  a  monster.  1  he  boldness,  the  intelligence,  an  all-pervading  egotism 
which  precludes  all  scruples.  I  cut  my  wTay  without  bothering  much  about 
the  means  and  my  speeches  often  flatter  the  people  to  the  detriment  of  the 
public  good.  Yesterday,  at  the  tribune,  I  bargained  off  the  defenders  of 
the  flag;  to-day  I  salute  the  flag.  It  was,  it  is  true,  made  with  the  hat  of  a 
traitor,  and  I  considered  it  a  delightful  irony,  up  to  the  time  the  flag  crossed 
my  threshold,  for  then  I  blushed  at  being  no  more  than  a  clown.  You  see 
I  am  not  mincing  words.  You  can  then  believe  me,  if  I  tell  you  that  in  spite 
of  my  wrongs  I  remain  a  useful  citizen,  applying  himself  to  fruitful  reforms, 
and  whose  deeds  are,  on  the  whole,  beneficent.  Do  you  know  why  ?  Sim- 
ply because  I  never  lose  sight  of  those  twenty  lines  that  future  historians  will 
dedicate  to  me.  I  am  taking  care  of  my  page  in  the  history  of  France. 

Michel. —  I  see  that  —  you  dream  of  glory! 

Bernard. —  Yes  —  the  real!  —  after  death!     The  only  one! 

Michel. —  The  only  one,  you  say  ? 

Bernard. —  The  living  get  only  popularity.  You  become  glorified  when 
you  are  no  longer  there  to  know!  Thus  I  do  not  believe  in  the  immortality 
of  the  soul,  and  I  work  for  eternity!  I  despise,  as  much  as  vou  do,  the  vile 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

masses  and  I  allow  myself  to  be  governed  by  public  opinion.  Odd  nature, 
for  a  man  who  prides  himself  on  being  positivish! 

Michel. —  An  instinct  like  that  is  not  to  be  explained.  Glory  is  beauti- 
ful and  you  want  it,  that's  all! 

Bernard. —  It  is  beautiful!  Yes,  that  is  enough  to  explain  my  absence 
of  logic.  Each  time  nature  requires  that  an  individual  should  sacrifice  his 
wellbeing  to  the  good  of  the  species,  she  brings  forth  something  beautiful. 
For  instance,  the  beauty  of  the  human  creature,  then  lovers  locked  in  each 
other's  arms  forget  paternity,  with  all  its  burdens,  maternity  with  all  its  pains, 
that  a  child  may  be  given  to  the  race.  Well,  glory,  too,  helps  with  its  beauty 
to  protect  the  species. 

Michel. —  Against  whom  ? 

Bernard. —  Against  people  like  you  and  me.  You  made  me  confess 
that  I  would  be  a. monster  if  the  desire  of  leaving  a  great  memorial  had  not 
made  me,  if  not  a  brave  man,  at  least  a  useful  one.  What  I  say  of  myself 
applies  to  all  beings  superlatively  endowed.  They  are  too  well  armed  not 
to  have  the  temptation  of  oppressing  the  weak.  Without  the  sublime  in- 
consequence which  animates  them  to  use  their  strength  and  shed  their  blood 
for  the  benefit  of  society,  in  the  hope  that  posterity  will  remember  them, 
instead  of  great  men  there  would  be  only  executioners. 

Michel. —  You  are  right.  Before  being  an  executioner,  I  had  bravely 
served  my  country,  not  out  of  devotion,  but  for  love  of  glory.  Why,  never 
having  ceased  to  love  it,  did  I  not  maintain  myself  at  the  height  to  which  it 
had  carried  me  ? 

Bernard. —  You  are  one  of  the  scamps,  fortunately  rare,  whose  egotism 
is  indomitable.  As  long  as  yours  was  young  you  let  yourself  be  dominated 
by  the  intoxication  of  being  acclaimed  a  hero.  But  very  shortly,  egotism 
took  the  upper  hand.  You  became  a  looter,  an  assassin,  a  murderer  of  your 
parents,  a  cowardly  seducer,  a  father  without  feeling.  You  have  broken 
all  barriers,  including  the  only  one  capable  of  intimidating  a  demon  like 
you —  Yes,  you  knocked  over  even  glory! 

Michel. —  You  waste  your  time  reviewing  my  crimes.  (Pointing  to 
HELENE.)  That  child  '•  eeping  over  me  has  just  placed  them  before  me  in 
so  poignant  a  way  that  I  would  give  everything  in  the  v.  orld  for  her  not  to  be 
my  child.  As  for  you,  you  have  v  on  my  respect.  I  do  not  mention  it  in 
order  to  flatter  you.  My  respect  does  not  flatter, —  but  to  give  myself  con- 
fidence. You  do  not  belong  to  the  illustrious  ones  who  are  bloated  with  a 
stupid  self-satisfaction.  I  felt,  through  what  you  said,  a  great  sadness.  You 
perceive  your  renown  floating  of}  in  a  majestic  flight  toward  a  distant  future 
and  you  are  the  prisoner  of  a  short  life.  Bernard,  we  were  made  to  under- 
stand each  other.  You  shall  have  glory!  I  have  not  renounced  it  - 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

> 

Bernard  (sarcastically}. —  Repeat  that! 

Michel. —  I  wish  to  conquer  glory! 

Bernard. —  If  a  black  sheep  of  your  species  dreams  of  it,  then  that  is 
just  the  time  when  he  must  fall  into  the  trap  laid  by  nature  for  the  rebel. 

Michel. —  Why  '  trap  ? '  Ah,  yes.  To  be  good,  serviceable,  useful  for 
love  of  some  beautiful  dream  which  you  never  grasp  since  it  stretches  out  its 
arms  to  you  for  the  other  side  of  the  grave.  Never  mind!  Some  of  the 
living  come  so  near  to  it  that  their  faces  are  glorified  with  the  reflection  of 
its  radiance.  Can  I  not  be  one  of  those  living  ones  ? 

Bernard. —  Alive  or  dead  you  will  never  enter  within  the  circle  of 
eternal  light.  You  are  without  a  country  and  it  is  love  of  country  that  makes 
a  man  great! 

Michel. —  What  if  I  tried  to  be  a  great  man  by  making  a  country  for 
myself  ? 

Bernard. —  How  ? 

Michel  (turning  toward  HELENE,  raising  his  voice). —  Eh!  little  one. 
You  have  heard  half  of  my  dream,  listen  to  the  rest!  (HELENE  enters  the 
room  and  listens  attentively  to  the  conversation  continued  between  the  two  men.} 
Be  assured  that  I  took  this  journey  on  purpose  to  tell  you  what  you  are  going 
to  hear.  If  I  speak  to  a  deaf  man,  existence  is  ended  for  me,  I  have  nothing 
more  to  do  but  kill  myself!  What  will  you  decide  ? 

Bernard  (coldly}. —  First  let  us  see. 

Michel. —  I  returned  to  Africa.  The  country  I  traversed  adjoins  the 
French  possessions  of  Chari. 

Bernard. —  Where  did  you  get  money  for  such  a  journey  ? 

Michel. —  I  never  touched,  for  my  personal  needs,  the  fortune  you  gave 
back  to  me.  Small  services  modestly  repaid  allowed  me  to  subsist  well 
enough.  All  this  time  my  capital  was  increasing  and  grew  into  a  consider- 
able amount.  This  amount  I  divided  into  two  unequal  parts;  the  smaller 
covered  the  trip  I  described;  with  the  other  I  make  myself  strong  enough  in 
a  few  months  to  become  the  master  of  a  vast  empire,  adjoining  French 
territory.  My  intention  is  then  to  take  back  my  own  name  and  offer  my 
conquest  to  France. 

Bernard  (sarcastically). —  You  had  not  accustomed  us  to  so  much  ab- 
negation. 

Michel. —  It  isn't  abnegation  —  if  I  give  I  expect  something  in  return. 

Bernard. —  What,  for  heaven's  sake  ? 

Michel. —  A  triumph  without  precedent.  Fancy  the  entry  into  Paris  of 
him  who  will  put  into  the  hands  of  France,  like  a  diamond  upon  his  mis- 
tress's finger,  a  country  so  rich  and  well  populated.  Remember  the  ovation 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

I  received  of  yore,  and  yet  then  I  brought  only  the  hope  of  conquest.  Where- 
as this  time  I  shall  be  offering  it! 

Bernard. —  Tush,  my  man,  you're  not  going  to  make  a  fool  of  yourself! 
And  I,  what  part  am  I  to  play  in  all  this  ? 

Michel. —  My  expedition  is  only  possible  if  I  can  have  brought  across 
the  Congo  enormous  armaments  and  munitions.  I  don't  ask  for  money, 
but  it  is  of  the  utmost  necessity  that  I  should  obtain,  upon  your  credit,  the 
good  will  of  France  for  the  deeds  of  Mr.  Renaud. 

Bernard. —  In  short,  it  simply  means  to  begin  anew  in  the  name  of 
Renaud  the  adventure  of  Michel  Prinson.  Well  no!  I'll  have  nothing  to 
do  with  it. 

Michel. —  You  can't  be  compromised.  An  individual  without  any  mis- 
sion. A  schemer  you  deny  in  case  of  disaster.  Only  see  that  I  am  let  alone. 
No  risk !  Everything  is  prepared.  Over  twenty  negro  kings,  whose  friend- 
ship I  have  made  await  only  my  arrival  to  - 

Bernard. —  You  are  losing  your  time.  I  to  send  you  over  there!  Then 
would  I  be  drawing  the  trigger  on  my  country! 

Michel. —  Do  you  prefer  to  kill  me  ? 

Bernard. —  Oh!     No  sentiment!     Leave  it  at  that! 

Michel. —  At  least  knowr  where  you  will  send  me  then.  I  have  decided 
to  offer  myself  to  the  first  Buffalo  Bill  that  comes  along  who  will  engage  me 
for  his  circus.  In  this  I  but  imitate  Cronje,  the  Boer  general  whom  some 
Barnum  exhibited  at  the  St.  Louis  Exposition.  You  can  count  on  a  nice 
scandal!  Your  brother  will  be  seen  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  negroes  seated 
in  the  brush,  spying  on  a  French  convoy  passing  through  the  wilds.  I  shall 
see  everything! 

Bernard. —  Fake!     Fake!     Fake!  of  blood  and  mud! 

Michel  (passing  his  hand  over  his  face  at  the  spot  indented  by  the  scars). 
—  Look!  Actors'  make-up  is  washed  off  more  easily  than  these. 

Bernard. —  There  are  fakes  even  in  the  shadow  of  the  guillotine,  and  it 
too  can  make  deep  gashes.  What  reason  have  you  to  commit  such  an  out- 
rage ?  Cronje  had  a  good  one;  starvation.  But  you  ? 

Michel. —  You  must  understand  that  life  devoid  of  violent  sensations  is 
impossible  for  me!  What  I  want  out  of  the  circus  are  the  cat  calls  of  the 
populace  maddened  by  my  presence,  the  insults  and  curses,  the  blows,  and 
peril  of  death  —  I  would  face  them !  It  would  be  my  last  battle! 

Bernard. —  Never,  in  France,  will  the  government  allow  you  to  appear 
in'public  —  it  would  be  the  shame  of  the  nation. 

Michel. —  In  Belgium,  in  Switzerland,  in  Italy,  never  mind  where!  I 
should  certainly  find  some  country  to  show  me  a  little  mercy.  Yes,  even 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 
> 

abroad,  I  hope  there  will  be  among  the  audience  a  French  officer  who  will 
take  out  his  pistol  and  brain  me. 

Bernard. —  I  hope  so  too!     (He  leaves  brusquely.} 

SCENE  III 
HELENE,  MICHEL 

Michel. —  You  hear  him!     And  he  is  my  brother! 

Helene. —  The  horrible  man!  Try  to  forget  him!  Listen  to  me!  I 
don't  want  you  to  join  a  circus.  I  know  how  to  prevent  you. 

Michel. —  You,  my  poor  child! 

Helene. —  Let  me  see!  If  you  were  not  alone,  would  that  make  you 
feel  like  living  ? 

Michel. —  To  be  not  alone  any  more.  But  —  who  would  keep  me 
company  ? 

Helene. —  I!  You  tell  me  phantoms  come  to  visit  you  and  help  you  to 
bear  your  life.  Well,  it  is  no  phantom  now,  but  a  creature  of  flesh  and  blood 
who  knocks  at  your  door.  Give  me  hospitality.  I  will  console  you  better 
than  your  marionettes. 

Michel. —  By  what  pretext  could  I  take  you  to  live  with  me,  what  will 
you  be  ? 

Helene. —  Your  daughter!  I  am  what  is  known  as  a  natural  child. 
The  first  passerby  who  so  wills  it  has  a  right  to  declare  that  he  is  my  father. 
Declare  it!  I  will  have  the  same  attachment  for  you  as  if  I  were  your  real 
daughter. 

Michel. —  Such  an  idea!     Who  whispered  it  to  you  ? 

Helene. —  No  one,  I  swear  - 

Michel. —  In  the  convent  I  suppose  they  informed  you  carefully  of 
the  fate  of  natural  children  ? 

Helene. —  Alas!  Yes,  in  the  convent!  Not  the  sisters.  A  pupil  who 
came  from  the  country  where  I  had  lived  with  my  mother  and  knew  she  was 
not  married.  To  insult  me  the  wretched  girl  used  to  enlighten  me  — 
heavens!  How  she  made  me  suffer!  At  least  I  learned  that  if  it  suits  me 
to  choose  a  father  and  he  accepts,  we  don't  need  anybody's  consent. 

Michel. —  But  in  the  end,  what  is  it  that  makes  you  so  kind  to  me  ? 

Helene. —  That  which  makes  you  kind  to  me.  Never  has  any  one 
spoken  so  nicely  to  me.  You,  the  great  ogre.  Let  me  show  you  a  little 
gratitude. 

Michel  (with  a  bitter  laugh}. —  Oh!  What  a  discovery!  You,  obliged 
to  me!  Tell  me  you  pity  me!  That  is  the  word!  Pity  —  no,  little  one, 
I  don't  eat  that  bread. 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

Helene. —  Do  you  take  me  for  a  saint  who  devotes  herself  out  of  charity  ? 
I  admire  you  and  I  am  proud  of  saving  you.  As  soon  as  you  entered  this 
house  I  was  struck  by  the  mystery  that  surrounded  you  and  I  did  not  cease 
to  observe  you.  All  I  saw  imposed  respect.  When  the  officer  who  carried 
the  flag  asked  you  the  way  you  replied,  '  I  don't  belong  to  the  house!  '  in  a 
tone  signifying  — '  I  no  longer  belong  to  this  world .'  Then  you  knocked 
against  me  as  you  ran  away.  Your  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  I  knew  nothing 
about  you;  yet  I  guessed  at  that  very  instant  they  were  not  tears  of  sorrow. 

Michel. —  They  in  no  way  resemble  them !  I  had  vowed  to  myself  that 
that  flag  should  float  some  day  over  my  future  conquests.  When  it  appeared 
I  felt  like  a  conqueror  —  I  could  see  myself  already  returning  from  Africa 
and  carried  in  triumph  by  the  Parisians!  I  wept  with  pride! 

Helene. —  That  is  a  fine  thing!  To  weep  with  pride  when  in  your  place 
the  average  man  would  but  complain  and  groan.  Your  perseverance  in 
your  quest  for  glory  makes  you  greater  than  if  you  possessed  glory,  and  since 
you  must  definitely  renounce  it,  I  wish  to  give  you  enough  affection  to  take 
its  place. 

Michel. —  Oh!     To  take  its  place! 

Helene. —  I  am  explaining  to  the  best  of  my  ability  the  thought  that 
occurred  to  me  while  you  wrere  describing  that  pale  man  that  a  great  beat  of 
the  wing  carried  upward.  Listening  to  you  I  seemed  to  be  among  the  crowd 
that  applauded  you!  'Twas  by  the  breath  of  their  love  that  you  were  car- 
ried heavenward.  When  you  go  in  the  conquest  of  glory  into  the  depths  of 
the  desert,  you  seek,  without  knowing  it,  the  tenderness  of  humanity.  Don't 
you  see  that  my  tenderness  is,  in  a  very  small  way,  that  which  you  are  pur- 
suing to  the  furthermost  parts  of  the  earth ! 

Michel. —  Yes,  I  have  a  desperate  passion  for  glory!  The  passion  that 
people  have  who  destroy  themselves  in  order  to  get  rid  of  themselves,  who 
fall  in  love  with  a  woman  because  her  smile  promises  forgetfulness.  I,  from 
whose  face  women  turn  with  horror,  I  adore  glory  as  a  smile  upon  the  lips  of 
humanity! 

Helene. —  You  see  indeed  howr  glory  and  love  are  but  one,  and  that 
my  affection  comes  at  a  critical  time,  when  your  hopes  of  greatness  are 
destroyed ! 

Michel. —  I  cannot  accept.  You  do  not  know  what  you  offer.  It  is 
too  much. 

Helene. —  Is  that  a  reason  not  to  want  it  ? 

Michel. —  Yes,  it  is  a  reason.  My  brutish  heart  is  still  capable  of 
fondness.  This  is  but  the  second  time  we  meet,  and  yet  it  will  be  hard  for 
me  to  part  from  you.  Think  what  it  would  be  after  a  long  intimacy! 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

> 

Helene. —  Why  should  we  separate  ? 

Michel. —  Because  some  day  you  may  learn  who  I  am. 

Helene. —  What  more  can  I  learn  about  you  ?     I  know  all  your  crimes. 

Michel. —  All,  except  the  one  that  would  most  revolt  you.  Ah!  All  the 
worse!  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  You  will  turn  your  back  on  me,  if  you  can't 
forgive  me. 

Helene. —  How  queer  you  are  to  imagine  that  one  more  crime  could 
frighten  me.  You  take  me  for  a  little  white  angel  who  faints  at  a  lively 
word.  Ah,  well,  no!  I  will  wager  that  there  is  many  a  bandit  with  a  less 
resolute  heart  than  I.  You  know  how  I  detest  society  which  has  shown  me 
only  misery  and  shame,  a  society  in  league  with  the  man  who  was  my  father. 

Michel. —  That  very  man,  eh  ?  You  would  see  him  die  like  a  dog  at 
your  feet,  and  not  move  a  finger  to  help  him  ? 

Helene. —  My  mother  almost  cursed  him  on  her  death  bed.  I  hate  him 
with  all  my  strength!  Let  us  speak  of  you. 

Michel. —  On  the  contrary,  let  us  not  do  so.  My  opinion  is  fixed.  I 
shall  say  nothing. 

Helene. —  As  you  like,  so  long  as  you  accept!     May  I  call  you  father  ? 

Michel. —  No,  indeed  no!     I  resign  all  hope. 

Helene. —  My  offer  gives  you  a  sight  of  salvation,  I  feel  it.  Why  repulse 
it  ?  Does  my  character  frighten  you  ? 

Michel. —  Yes,  my  child.  I  cannot  keep  from  smiling  to  hear  you  de- 
clare yourself  the  enemy  of  society,  because  of  a  few-  bitter  feelings  you 
cherish  against  it.  To  let  you  attach  yourself  to  me  in  the  heyday  of  your 
youth,  at  an  age  to  assure  yourself  of  a  splendid  future,  would  be  a  dastardly 
action.  To  walk  hand  in  hand  with  me  one  must  be  a  reprobate!  Had 
you  fallen  in  the  depths  of  the  whirlpool  in  which  I  am  struggling,  I  should 
say:  '  Very  well!  Let  us  both  try  to  get  out!  '  But  into  such  a  whirlpool 
one  does  not  fall  consciously! 

Helene. —  What!  You  accept  as  friends  only  those  who  fire  on  the  flag! 
How  discouraging!  After  all,  I  do  keep  a  ray  of  hope!  When  do  you  leave  ? 

Michel. —  This  very  day. 

Helene. —  No,  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  once  more.  One  more  day, 
What  difference  can  it  make  to  you  ?  Come  to-morrow  morning. 

Michel. —  Could  we  not  meet  somewhere  else  ?  I  prefer  not  to  see  my 
brother  again. 

Helene. —  Bear  this  slight  annoyance  for  my  sake.  I  should  especially 
like  to  have  our  interview  here.  May  I  count  on  you  ? 

Michel. —  Yes,  I  will  come.     It  will  be  to  say  good  by  to  you. 

Helene. —  I  shall  expect  you  before  nine. 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

Michel. —  That  will  suit  admirably.  I  can  then  take  a  train  towards 
noon. 

Helene  (starting  to  leave). —  Au  revoir!  Until  to-morrow,  I  shall  be 
very  busy. 

Michel. —  What  doing  ? 

Helene. —  Rolling  in  the  whirlpool!     (They  separate.} 

ACT  III 
SCENE  I 
BERNARD,  CLOTILDE 

BERNARD  is  busy  reading  the  newspapers.     Enter  CLOTILDE. 

Clotilde. —  No  news  as  yet  ? 

Bernard. —  No,  nothing  —  I  am  waiting!  Over  a  half  hour  since  I 
sent  Charles;  he  can't  be  long  now  getting  back. 

Clotilde. —  And  we  shall  learn  that  Michel  has  gone. 

Bernard. —  I  hope  so,  but  I  fear  not. 

Clotilde. —  All  the  worse!  If  he  did  not  take  a  train  last  night,  we  shall 
see  him  to-day.  Do  you  know  where  he  is  stopping  ? 

Bernard. —  No.  I  told  Charles  to  go  first  to  the  White  Horse.  It  is 
the  only  inn  around  here  where  they  receive  newspapers  hostile  to  me,  and 
Michel  quoted  a  passage  from  La  Vigie  that  he  had  read  at  dinner.  (The 
SERVANT  enters.}  Ah!  Here  is  Charles. 

SCENE  II 
BERNARD,  CLOTILDE,  CHARLES 

Bernard  (to  the  SERVANT). —  You  carried  out  my  orders  ? 

Charles. —  I  have  just  come  from  Jossigny.  Mr.  Renaud  passed  the 
night  at  the  White  Horse. 

Bernard. —  They  did  not  guess  you  were  sent  by  me  ? 

Charles. —  I  was  careful  to  follow  monsieur's  instructions.  It  was  easy! 
The  innkeeper  had  more  to  do  than  interest  himself  in  me :  half  the  regiment 
is  encamped  there.  I  made  a  porter  talk.  He  carries  the  guests'  valises. 
He  was  ordered  to  take  Mr.  Renaud's  to  the  eleven  o'clock  train. 

Barnard. —  All  right,  thank  you.  Find  out  if  Miss  Froment  is  up  yet. 
As  soon  as  she  is  ready,  ask  her  to  come  here  to  us. 

Charles. —  Yes,  sir.     (He  leaves.} 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

> 

SCENE  III 
BERNARD,  CLOTILDE 

Clotilde. —  What  do  you  wish  to  say  to  Helena  ? 

Bernard. —  I  am  curious  to  know  what  happened  yesterday  when  I 
left  her  alone  with  Michel.  Their  interview  lasted  fully  twenty  minutes. 
After  my  brother's  departure  I  did  not  have  time  to  look  after  her.  I  was 
obliged  to  receive  the  electors  till  dinner  time,  and  after  dinner  be  interested 
in  the  colonel's  campaigns.  While  I  was  listening  to  this  good  man  I  kept 
my  eye  on  Helene.  It  seemed  to  me  she  was  very  gay. 

Clotilde. —  Yes,  in  a  delightful  humor. 

Bernard. —  You  cannot  get  it  out  of  my  head  that  my  brother  is  pro- 
longing his  stay  on  her  account.  I  shall  make  sure  of  it  by  getting  her  to 
talk.  In  case  of  Michel's  having  swallowed  the  bait,  I  might,  by  good  ad- 
vice, hasten  events. 

Clotilde. —  If  I  were  you  I  should  tell  Helene  squarely  that  Michel  is  her 
father. 

Bernard. —  What  a  mistake!  She  told  you  she  hated  her  unknown 
father. 

Clotilde. —  Yes,  but  she  is  impressed  with  Michel.  I  shall  never  believe 
that  physical  attraction  can  be  annihilated  by  a  mere  mental  aversion. 

Bernard. —  If  she  forgave  Michel  without  being  taken  away  by  him, 
we  would  be  left  with  a  relative  on  our  hands.  Relations  of  such  a 
stamp.  No!  (HELENE  enters;  she  shakes  hands  with  CLOTILDE  and 
BERNARD.) 

SCENE  IV 
BERNARD,  CLOTILDE,  HELENE 

Bernard  (gaily  to  HELENE). —  Up  already  ? 

Helene. —  For  a  long  time.  Not  according  to  my  usual  habit,  I  slept 
badly. 

Bernard. —  You  had  been  present  during  the  day  at  a  rather  painful 
scene;  it  made  you  nervous. 

Helene. —  Probably.     Why  are  you  so  cruel  to  that  unfortunate  man  ? 

Bernard. —  One  is  cruel  with  tigers. 

Helene. —  I,  a  child,  I  tamed  him  at  a  moment's  notice. 

Bernard. —  It  is  true!  When  I  joined  you,  you  both  appeared  to  be 
the  best  of  friends.  You  should  be  proud  to  possess  so  great  a  power  to 
tame  monsters.  I  haven't  such  good  luck.  Was  he  not  too  odious  with  his 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

threat  to  get  himself  cut  to  pieces  in  a  circus  so  as  to  revenge  himself  on  me 
for  my  refusal! 

Helene. —  He  had  no  idea  of  revenge.  He  would  go  to  the  circusTto 
see  thousands  of  men,  wild  with  rage,  fall  upon  him.  Alone,  against  them 
all,  calm  and  disdainful  in  the  face  of  the  howling  mob,  he  would  be  superb ! 
Cries  of  enthusiasm  would  burst  out  from  among  his  assassins.  While  he 
was  dying  he  would  have  the  sensation  of  being  a  hero! 

Bernard. —  Why  does  he  need  to  end  a  peculiarly  ugly  life  with  beauty  ? 

Helene. —  His  life  is  not  ugly.  He  deserves  the  wrath  that  has  over- 
whelmed him,  but  under  the  weight  of  all  that  wrath  he  uplifts  himself  with 
splendid  energy.  I  am  going  to  say  something  which  he  would  be  capable 
of  thrashing  me  for,  if  he  heard  it;  don't  you  think  that  with  all  his  air  of 
wishing  to  dominate  a  nation,  he  is  really  at  that  nation's  feet  ?  While  he 
was  promising  to  conquer  a  kingdom  for  France  I  got  the  impression  that  he 
was  begging  his  country's  forgiveness. 

Bernard.—  Without  humbling  himself! 

Helene. —  If  he  humbled  himself  it  would  be  less  touching.  To  ex- 
press so  ardent  a  desire  to  hear  his  name  glorified,  is  it  not  confessing  how 
much  it  hurts  him  to  be  detested  ? 

Bernard. —  Evidently,  his  desperate  ambition  is  pathetically  beautiful. 
Unfortunately  we  can  do  nothing. 

Helene. —  Perhaps  not  you,  but  I  - 

Bernard. —  You  see  some  way  to  help  him  ? 

Helene. —  Yes,  a  very  simple  way. 

Bernard. —  What  ? 

Helene. —  You  heard  how  once  I  wanted  to  join  the  order  of  the  Little 
Sisters  of  the  Poor,  which  means  being  a  servant  to  the  infirm.  I  gave  it  up 
because  I  did  not  possess  enough  Christian  charity  to  love  beings  more  or 
less  repulsive.  But  your  brother  —  I  would  not  deserve  much  credit  if  I 
attached  myself  to  him  —  I  would  make  his  life  so  easy  that  he  would  forget 
his  dreams.  My  idea  may  be  crazy.  What  do  you  think  ? 

Bernard. —  Miss  Helene,  a  romantic  idea  is  not  always  a  crazy  one. 
Yours  is  excellent;  I  approve  of  it  immensely.  To  create  duties  for  oneself 
is  the  secret  of  embellishing  life!  I  see  but  one  objection;  under  what  pre- 
text will  you  go  to  Michel,  who  is  not  an  infirm  old  man  ? 

Helene. —  Wounds  of  the  heart  bleed  as  much  as  the  other  kind. 

Bernard. —  Yes,  but  from  within. 

Helene. —  He  showed  me  his,  the  most  difficult  part  is  done. 

Bernard  (remonstrating). —  Still  —  what  would  you  be  to  this  man,  who 
is  neither  old  nor  ill  —  a  nurse  ?  A  sister  of  charity  ?  Nothing  fits! 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 
j 

Helene. —  One  thing  fits  —  his  daughter! 

Bernard. —  Bravo!     That  is  well  thought  of! 

Clotilde  (throwing  her  arms  about  HELENE). —  Let  me  embrace  you! 
How  charming  of  you! 

Bernard.  — The  next  step  is  to  pave  the  way  prudently  with  Michel. 
•  Helene. —  Must  one  be  so  particular  with  a  man  who  has  nothing  left 
but  to  kill  himself  ?     I  offered  to  be  his  daughter. 

Bernard. —  How,  offered  ? 

Helene. —  Yes,  —  scarcely  had  you  left  us.  Did  I  not  tell  you  the  most 
difficult  part  had  been  done  ? 

Bernard. —  What  did  he  answer. 

Helene.< —  That  he  would  not  accept. 

Bernard. —  So  all  is  over  ? 

Helene  (embarrassed}. —  No  indeed!     I  still  have  hope. 

Bernard. —  He  asked  for  time  to  think  it  over  ? 

Helene  (grasping  at  the  idea). —  That's  it — to  think  it  over.  This 
morning  I  am  to  have  my  answer. 

Bernard. —  Ah !     You  expect  a  visit  ? 

Helene. —  Yes,  it  is  almost  time  now. 

Bernard. —  Well,  you  will  see  him.  I  am  told  he  is  still  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

Helene. —  I  know  it;  this  morning  I  saw  him  from  my  window.  He 
walked  around  the  garden  several  times. 

Bernard. —  What  was  he  looking  for  ? 

Helene. —  Me,  no  doubt. 

Bernard. —  Why  did  you  not  join  him  ?     It  was  a  chance  to  settle  it. 

Helene. —  I  had  not  finished  dressing. 

Bernard. —  Nonsense!  Under  such  circumstances  one  is  not  so  careful. 
(Interrupting  himself.}  Eh?  Some  one  walking  in  the  garden.  (Running 
to  the  window.}  It  is  Michel.  He  seems  undecided  —  now  he's  stopping. 
There!  He  has  seated  himself  on  a  bench.  (To  HELENE.)  We  will  run 
away  discreetly.  Call  him. 

Helene. —  No,  no:     I  don't  want  to  see  him  now. 

Bernard. —  Why  ? 

Helene. —  They  are  coming  after  the  flag.  We  would  not  be  left  alone. 
I  would  rather  not  speak  to  him  until  after  the  ceremony.  Keep  him  here, 
I  will  fly.  (She  leaves.} 

SCENE  V 

BERNARD,  CLOTILDE 
Clotilde. —  What  a  strange  girl! 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

Bernard. —  She  would  have  a  thousand  opportunities  to  learn  Michel's 
decision  before  the  flag  is  carried  away.  There!  Do  you  wish  my  opinion  ? 
She  is  not  telling  the  truth,  or  at  least  she  is  concealing  some  important  detail. 
(Looking  outside.}  Ah!  Michel  is  rising.  He  is  slowly  approaching. 
(Clotilde  leans  close  to  the  window  pane.}  Take  care!  Don't  show  yourself. 
He  is  looking  at  all  the  windows. 

Clotilde. —  He  seems  tired  —  how  broken  he  is  since  yesterday! 

Bernard. —  If  he  should  enter,  receive  him. 

Clotilde. —  How  good  you  are ! 

Bernard. —  After  what  has  occurred  I  can  no  longer  speak  to  him. 
Even  for  his  own  sake  any  discussion  must  be  prevented,  so  that  all  his  hopes 
may  be  concentrated  in  his  daughter's  direction. 

Clotilde. —  If  I  am  to  remain  with  him,  send  me  re-enforcements; 
Jeanne,  the  colonel,  whoever  you  can 

Bernard. —  I  am  going  to  see  the  colonel  now  and  I  will  return  with  him. 
As  long  as  any  stranger  is  here  there  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of. 

Clotilde. —  He  is  making  up  his  mind;  here  he  is!  (She  steps  back  into 
the  room,  seats  herself  near  a  table,  takes  a  paper  and  composes  herself.} 

Bernard  (as  he  reaches  the  door}. —  Do  your  best.     (He  goes  out.} 

SCENE  VI 
CLOTILDE,  MICHEL 

(MiCHEL  enters.  He  takes  several  steps  in  CLOTILDE'S  direction,  and 
speaks  only  after  he  is  sure  she  is  alone.} 

Michel. —  Good  morning,  Clotilde  — do  you  recognize  me  ?  I  am  your 
brother-in-law.  In  the  old  days  you  always  treated  me  in  a  friendly  way. 
Help  me  —  entreat  your  husband  in  my  behalf  —  what  I  ask  is  not  danger- 
ous. I  go  in  quest  of  a  name.  Save  your  old  Michel! 

Clotilde  (at  first  moved,  regains  her  composure  and  answers  in  icy  tones}. 
—  Monsieur  Renaud,  my  brother-in-law  has  been  dead  a  long  time  —  do 
not  let  us  mention  him. 

Michel  (bursting  forth  with  a  laugh  that  is  almost  a  sob}. —  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
Very  pretty!  A  really  amusing  joke.  Worth  the  journey!  Adieu,  mad- 
ame.  (He  turns  about  on  his  heel,  dizzy,  endeavoring  to  go  out,  then  straight- 
ens himself  with  a  violent  effort  and  returns  to  CLOTILDE.)  Am  I  not  absent- 
minded!  I  was  forgetting  the  most  important  thing  —  I  would  like  to  have 
a  word  with  that  child,  the  orphan.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Orphaned  of  father  and 
mother! 

Clotilde. —  You  shall  see  her,  Monsieur  Renaud. 

(HEROUARD,  BERNARD,  JEANNE,  enter.} 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 
> 

SCENE  VII 
CLOTILDE,  MICHEL,  HEROUARD,  BERNARD,  JEANNE 

Clotilde  (to  the  COLONEL,  who  advances  to  shake  hands  with  her,  already 
belted,  booted,  and  buckled). —  Colonel! 

Herouard. —  Indeed,  yes!     Madame,  soon  they  will  require  me. 

Clotilde. —  You  were  not  too  uncomfortable  I  trust  in  your  small  quar- 
ters ?  I  reproach  myself  for  having  put  you  there.  Not  a  very  large  room, 
and  this  morning,  when  I  awakened,  I  remembered  your  explanations  about 
the  flag.  A  comrade  taking  up  much  space,  you  said  - 

Herouard. —  You  are  too  kind  to  bother  about  so  little  I  occupied  the 
room  all  to  myself.  The  flag  bearer,  learning  the  adjoining  chamber  was 
empty  deposited  the  flag  in  there. 

Clotilde. —  To  be  sure  —  the  blue  room,  between  Miss  Froment's  and 
yours.  Why  did  I  not  think  of  it  ? 

Bernard  (to  CLOTILDE). —  I  say,  wife  of  mine,  time  flies;  we  ought  to  give 
the  colonel  his  breakfast. 

Clotilde  (shrugging  her  shoulders}. —  Be  sure,  my  friend,  I  thought 
about  that  long  ago. 

Herouard. —  Dear  deputy,  I've  been  spoiled.  I  breakfasted  at  my 
bedside.  I  am  ready  now  to  receive  my  men. 

Michel. —  I  am  surprised  to  find  you  going  to  the  maneuvres  so  late. 

Herouard. —  Excuse  me,  Monsieur  Renaud,  I  did  not  see  you.  There 
are  no  maneuvres  to-day.  We  are  moving  camp.  As  the  heat  is  quite 
bearable,  I  decided  to  make  a  late  morning  of  it  —  so  my  boys  are  taking  it 
easy.  (Drawing  out  his  watch.}  They  should  be  here  in  two  minutes,  and 
nothing  as  yet  announces  the  fact.  That  is  what  is  called  military  prompt- 
ness. You  who  come  fresh  from  Jossigny,  give  me  the  news.  Is  the  regi- 
ment starting  ? 

Michel. —  I  am  not  fresh  from  the  village.  Since  dawn  I've  been 
walking. 

Herouard. —  Was  it  not  you  I  saw  from  my  window,  strolling  along  the 
cliffs  on  the  other  side  of  the  garden  ? 

Michel. —  Perhaps.  I  was  ahead  of  time  and  for  quite  a  while  I've 
been  strolling  around  the  neighborhood. 

Herouard  (approaching  MICHEL). —  I  must  let  you  know  that  your 
trousers  are  torn  —  there,  at  the  knee  - 

Michel  (after  examining  the  place). —  It  happened  as  I  climbed  over  the 
garden  rail.  They  caught. 

Herouard. —  You  did  not  come  through  the  gate  ? 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

Bernard. —  Were  doors  made  for  him  ?  Yesterday,  too,  he  entered  the 
garden  like  a  robber. 

Michel  (waving  toward  HELENE  as  she  enters}. —  And  here  is  a  young 
girl  to  whom  my  unexplained  presence  caused  a  terrible  fright.  She  was 
quietly  reading  and  suddenly  she  beheld  me  standing  before  her. 

SCENE  VIII 
CLOTILDE,  MICHEL,  HEROUARD,  BERNARD,  JEANNE,  HELENE 

Helene  (interrupting  MICHEL). —  No,  sir,  I  was  not  terribly  frightened. 
A  nervous  start  is  not  fear.  (Laughing  rather  forcedly.}  If  you  take  me  for 
a  wet  hen,  you  make  a  mistake!  I  am  very  resolute  and  I  shall  prove  it 
sooner  or  later. 

Herouard  (laughing). —  You  are  proving  it  now. 

"Jeanne  (to  HELENE). —  Monsieur  Renaud  is  very  proud  whenever  he 
puts  a  young  girl  to  flight.  I  am  not  sorry  that  he  has  at  last  met  his  match. 

Michel  (with  feverish  gaiety,  beneath  which  despair  is  noticeable  to 
HELENE). —  You,  too,  against  me!  (To  JEANNE.)  And  then,  you.  (Look- 
ing toward  CLOTILDE.)  Whom  else  ?  Whose  turn  next  ? 

Herouard  (to  HELENE). —  Mademoiselle,  you  have  no  right  to  attack 
any  one.  Yesterday  your  behavior  was  shocking;  to  prefer  to  twirl  your 
thumbs  instead  of  dance  with  my  officers!  It's  enough  to  disgust  any  one 
with  being  a  soldier! 

Jeanne  (to  HEROUARD). —  And  I,  who  waltzed  all  day,  I  suppose  I 
didn't  count!  Your  lieutenants,  though,  did  not  seem  disgusted! 

Herouard  (laughing}. —  Ah!  permit  me,  mademoiselle,  you  are  begging 
the  question.  (While  HEROUARD  endeavors  to  atone  for  his  mistake,  BER- 
NARD approaches  his  wife  and  talks  to  her  in  an  undertone.} 

Bernard.—  Well  ? 

Clotilde. —  What  a  state  of  affairs!     He  nearly  threw  himself  at  my  feet. 

Bernard. —  The  grand  play,  then  ? 

Clotilde. —  Yes  —  'Clotilde!  My  sister-in-law!  Your  old  Michel!' 
The  whole  scale! 

Bernard. —  You  did  not  weaken  ? 

Clotilde. —  Michel  dead  —  I  held  to  that,  not  without  trouble,  because 
he  was  pitiful.  (Showing  the  little  gathering  that  is  gaily  conversing.}  Now 
again  I  see  in  his  eyes  a  real  anguish.  Go  over  to  them  and  get  the  colonel 
off  as  soon  as  you  can.  For  Michel's  sake,  I  want  to  get  it  over. 

Bernard. —  If  you  were  to  go  away,  he  would  feel  more  at  his  ease. 

Clotilde. —  And  what  of  me!  (Aloud.}  Jeanne,  will  you  go  as  far  as 
the  road  with  me  ?  We  will  see  if  the  soldiers  are  climbing  the  hill. 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

> 

Jeanne. —  Yes,  and  I'll  rush  »back  and  tell  the  colonel.  (She  moves 
•away.) 

Herouard  (following  her  with  his  eyes}. —  In  her  I  have  a  charming 
little  aid-de-camp.  (CLOTILDE  and  JEANNE  go  into  the  gar  Jen.) 

SCENE  IX 

MICHEL,  HEROUARD,  BERNARD,  HELENE 

Bernard. —  Charming  ?  No.  I  shall  regard  her  as  a  bird  of  ill  augur 
since  she  will  bring  you  the  signal  to  depart. 

Herouard. —  Really  ?  I  can  trust  that  my  presence  has  not  been  too 
inopportune  ? 

Bernard  (protesting). —  O  colonel! 

Herouard. —  But!  The  unexpected  guest  that  one  takes  in  out  of  a 
sense  of  duty  - 

Bernard  (interrupting). —  It  is  mean  of  you  to  accuse  us  of  such  senti- 
ments. We  shall  miss  you  very  much.  Believe  me,  colonel,  your  stay  in 
this  house  will  mark  a  date  in  my  life.  Until  to-day  I  fancied  the  old  formu- 
las of  patriotism  held  good  only  in  uncultivated  minds.  That  morning, 
when  I  went  out  to  salute  the  flag,  I  was  conceding  something  to  the  prej- 
udices of  those  who  elected  me,  and  I  was  not  as  imbued  with  respect  as  my 
attitude  made  me  appear.  Well!  From  the  moment  that  the  flag  was 
brought  forward,  I  received  the  impression  that  the  officer,  in  saluting  with 
his  sword,  was  offering  his  life  and  that  of  his  soldiers,  and  that  the  flag 
accepted!  Better  than  that!  When  the  flag  passed  by  me  to  cross  this 
threshold,  I  bowed  my  head,  oh!  this  time,  sincerely  moved.  'T  was  a  prince 
coming  beneath  my  roof.  Never  vassal  received  with  greater  submission 
the  visit  of  his  lord.  I  speak  to  you  as  to  a  friend,  to  whom  one  is  not  afraid 
of  unveiling  one's  failings. 

Herouard. —  Ah!  Monsieur  Prinson,  I  envy  your  eloquence;  it  would 
help  me  to  thank  you.  Our  calling  is  not  in  great  favor  these  days.  It 
seems  quite  simple  that  we  should  go  to  Madagascar  and  have  our  bones 
broken,  to  Tonquin  or  the  Soudan,  so  long  as  we  allow  ourselves  to  be  treated 
like  fools  and  good  for  nothings.  'Tis  expected!  But,  pah!  idiots  like  us 
are  needed!  just  the  same  I  find  it  a  relief  to  meet  some  one  before  whom 
one  need  not  blush  for  being  one  of  those  idiots!  There  is  one  man  of  sense 
alive  who  admits  that  a  nation  has  gone  to  the  devil  when  it  ceases  to  honor 
military  courage!  When  I  was  told  I  would  be  put  up  at  Deputy  Prinson's, 
byjjove,  I  must  admit,  I  wasn't  particularly  tickled.  Your  speeches,  as 
they  are  given  in  the  newspapers  have  so  little  resemblance  to  what  I  am 
now  hearing!  When  reading  the  reports  from  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  one 
often*has  to  ask  *  How  can  France  still  exist  ? '  And  then  one  sees  that  in 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

spite  of  everything  France  is  still  standing;  and  then,  too,  one  realizes  that 
there  must  be  some  restrictive.  Well,  now!  I  know  there  is  a  man  there. 
You're  a  better  fellow  than  you  appear.  You  love  France!  You  love  her 
flag!  You  don't  separate  one  from  the  other!  The  flag!  To  understand 
all  that  means  you  must  hear  balls  whistling  past.  A  priest  has  his  God 
living,  incarnate  in  the  host, — and  the  flag  to  us  means  a  real  presence. 
When  it  flies  in  battle  'tis  our  country  herself  stretching  out  her  arms  to  her 
stricken  soldier.  When  you  began  to  speak  of  the  flag  as  if  it  were  a  human 
being,  I  thrilled  from  head  to  foot;  It  is! 

Michel. —  I  am  an  old  soldier,  and  I've  done  more  than  hear  balls 
whistle  past.  Look!  (He  raises  his  hand  to  his  face.}  Yes,  you  are  right! 
The  flag  is  a  human  being!  But  that  being  is  not  country!  I  have  noticed 
beneath  the  enemy's  fire,  soldiers  of  a  foreign  legion,  or  people  who  sell  their 
blood;  negroes,  plunderers.  Around  that  being  who  is  in  question  their 
courage  increased  wildly.  They  would  let  themselves  be  hacked  for  her. 
Yet  it  was  not  their  country! 

Herouard. —  Then  what  was  it  ? 

Michel. —  Glory! 

Herouard. —  How  can  that  touch  negroes  who  have  not  even  a  word  to 
express  it,  or  those  desperadoes  who  have  lost  even  their  name  ? 

Michel. —  You  too,  colonel,  have  led  those  two  types  of  people  into 
battle.  Yes  or  no,  is  it  a  fact  that  the  flag  exalts  their  courage  ? 

Herouard. —  Yes,  it  is  true! 

Michel. —  How  do  you  explain  it  ? 

Herouard. —  For  them  the  flag  incarnates  the  regiment.  That  esprit  de 
corps,  which  is  a  small  form  of  patriotism,  enflames  them.  They  protect, 
against  the  enemy,  the  emblem  of  the  regiment,  with  a  passion  analogous 
to  that  which  certain  games  develop.  When  children  fight  over  a  ball  there 
are  often  broken  arms  and  legs. 

Michel. —  I  have  known  rebels  who  had  a  terrible  hatred  for  the  regi- 
ment, yet  who  could  not  see  the  flag  without  turning  pale.  One  therefore 
did  not  represent  the  other.  Do  you  know  what  makes  the  flag  sacred  to 
negroes  and  outcasts  ?  It  is  because  they  have  learned  that  a  whole  nation 
attaches  extreme  importance  to  the  preservation  of  that  bit  of  cloth.  That 
rage  and  scorn  await  those  who  allow  it  to  be  taken  —  respect  and  praise 
to  those  who  save  it  —  Ah !  They  have  no  illusions,  those  wretches.  They 
hope  for  neither  honor  nor  triumph  —  but  they  feel  in  a  confused  way  that 
the  exaltation  of  a  whole  nation  for  one  object,  a  man  or  a  thing,  constitutes 
the  most  thrilling  vision  possible  to  contemplate.  The  object  becomes  im- 
pregnated finally  with  the  sentiment  it  inspires.  I  have  seen,  in  the  depths 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

> 

of  sanctuaries  where  thousands  of  pilgrims  crowded,  wooden  virgins,  grown 
really  divine  from  having  heard  the  ardent  prayers  and  supplications  of 
those  throngs.  They  cured  the  incurable  and  converted  sinners.  The  flag 
itself  is  woven  out  of  heroism,  enthusiasm,  and  exaltation.  It  flies 
aloft  swelling  out  with  human  emotions.  The  most  humiliated  brows 
are  radiant  before  it.  It  is  beauty!  It  is  glory! 

Herouard. —  Beauty,  that's  certain.  One  fights  for  it  as  you  would 
fight  on  the  high  road  for  a  beautiful  woman. 

Michel. —  And  if  a  rebel  should  come  to  the  point  of  firing  on  it  —  well ! 
You  kill  the  woman  you  find  in  the  other  man's  arms.  You  kill  and  you 
adore! 

Herouard. —  Monsieur  Renaud.  You  can't  make  it  filter  through  my 
old  noddle  that  a  soldier  can  love  his  flag  and  fire  on  it.  Moreover,  that 
same  noddle  will  ever  confuse  patriotism  and  glory.  In  spite  of  which  you 
have  said  things  just  now  that  pleased  me.  Where  did  you  serve  ? 

Michel  (fiercely}. —  It  is  of  no  consequence  —  I  am  one  of  those  who 
have  lost  even  their  name. 

Herouard. —  I  do  not  insist.  (He  stretches  out  his  hand.}  A  hand- 
shake, anyway. 

Michel. —  Not  even  that. 

Herouard  (in  a  resigned  tone}. —  Ah!  Ah!  I  am  sorry.  (JEANNE 
enters  first,  followed  shortly  by  CLOTILDE.) 

SCENE  X 
MICHEL,  HEROUARD,  BERNARD,  HELENE,  JEANNE,  CLOTILDE 

Jeanne. —  Here  they  are. 

Herouard. —  Still  very  far  away  ? 

Clotilde  (entering}. —  Very  near,  unfortunately. 

Herouard. —  Permit  me  to  see  if  my  orderly  is  saddling  my  horse. 

Clotilde  (who  has  remained  by  the  door}. —  The  horse  is  there.  Already 
the  loafers  are  circling  around  him.  (Excepting  HELENE  and  MICHEL,  all 
the  characters  stand  near  JEANNE  and  CLOTILDE,  and  grouped  about  them 
watch  events.  Outside  are  numerous  voices,  interspersed  with  calls,  with  un- 
finished verses  of  the  Marseillaise  hymn,  and  almost  immediately,  above  all 
other  sounds,  the  even  tread  of  the  company  and  the  click  of  their  arms  are 
heard.  A  command:  the  company  halts  and  faces  front.  Other  commands. 
The  sounds  of  conversation  are  resumed.  The  musicians  test  their  instruments. 
A  clarinet  rolls  out  several  notes.  Meanwhile  HELENE  and  MICHEL  remain 
alone  on  the  front  of  the  stage.  As  soon  as  the  others  have  left  them  HELENE 
turns  toward  MICHEL  and  speaks  to  him  in  a  joyful  tone.} 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

Helene. —  Good  morning!  Are  you  still  annoyed  with  me  ?  What  an 
evil  look! 

Michel. —  The  look  of  a  beast  at  bay. 

Helene. —  If  you  knew,  you  would  look  differently.  Have  faith.  Don't 
you  see  I  am  pleased  ? 

Michel. —  You  are  right,  little  young  creature;  for  you  life  can  be  lovely! 

Helene. —  For  both  of  us,  I  hope!     (The  flag  bearer  enters,  followed  by 

two  SUBALTERNS.) 

SCENE  XI 

MICHEL,  HEROUARD,  BERNARD,  HELENE,  JEANNE,  CLOTILDE,THE  FLAG 

BEARER 

Herouard  (making  a  sign  to  the  flag  bearer,  who  places  himself,  heels 
together,  military  fashion,  before  him). —  Can  you  find  your  way  to  the  room 
in  which  the  flag  is  ? 

The  Flag  Bearer. —  Yes,  certainly,  colonel. 

Herouard  (with  a  sign  for  him  to  move  on). — Go!  (The  FLAG  BEARER 
disappears  in  the  adjoining  room.  HEROUARD  turning  to  CLOTILDE  and 
BERNARD  prepares  to  take  leave.)  Madame,  there  is  nothing  left  but  for 
me  to  thank  you  for  your  hospitality,  of  which  I  shall  always  keep  a  delight- 
ful memory. 

Bernard. —  And  don't  forget,  colonel,  that  you  owe  me  reparation  for 
suggesting  you  were  here  only  as  a  guest  to  a  certain  extent  forced  upon  me. 
You  will  come  soon  as  a  friend.  Will  you  promise  ? 

Clotilde. —  Yes,  colonel,  you  must  decide  upon  a  date.  Come,  do  so! 
(The  FLAG  BEARER  returns  in  great  haste.) 

The  Flag  Bearer  (much  troubled). —  Colonel,  the  flag  has  been  stolen! 

Herouard. —  What!     You   are   crazy! 

The  Flag  Bearer. —  Well !     It  is  gone ! 

Bernard. —  How  could  they  get  in  ?     Was  the  window  broken  open  ? 

The  Flag  Bearer. —  The  window  is  in  perfect  condition,  the  shutters 
tightly  fastened.  They  must  have  come  by  the  door. 

Bernard. —  Was  it  broken  down  ? 

The  Flag  Bearer. —  They  had  only  to  open  it;  it  was  not  locked. 

Bernard. —  This  is  unpardonable  —  unheard  of! 

Herouard  (intervening  to  disculpate  his  man). —  He  is  not  to  blame. 
No  ruling  compels  one  to  take  the  same  precautions  for  the  flag  as  for  a 
purse  full  of  banknotes.  The  only  instructions  we  have  are  for  its  preser- 
vation. 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

> 

Bernard. —  Yes  —  to  prevent  it  being  spoiled.  No  one  ever  dreamed 
of  its  being  stolen! 

Herouard. —  But  who  under  heaven  would  have  conceived  it  ?  What 
could  one  do  with  a  stolen  flag  ?  It  is  extraordinary! 

Clotilde  (going  to  the  doorstep}. —  There  are  at  least  two  hundred  loung- 
ers out  there,  what  will  they  think! 

Bernard  (wild}. —  Yes,  colonel,  how  can  we  explain  it  ? 

Herouard. —  Do  I  have  to  report  to  a  lot  of  loafers  ? 

Bernard. —  I,  the  deputy,  in  whose  house  the  accident  occurred,  I  have 
to! 

Michel  (to  BERNARD,  in  a  way  that  he  alone  can  hear). —  Ah!  What 
joy  it  would  be  for  me  to  leave  you  with  a  dirty  story  on  your  hands.  But  I 
can't  help  it  —  I  will  speak.  (Advancing  to  HELENE  and  stopping  two  feet 
away  from  her  he  says  to  the  COLONEL,  motioning  toward  her:)  Here  is  the 
thief!  (To  HELENE.)  It  is  in  your  room,  is  it  not  ? 

Helene. —  Yes. 

Michel  (to  HELENE). —  You  have  the  key?  (HELENE  nods.)  Give  it 
to  me!  (She  draws  the  key  out  of  her  pocket  and  gives  it  to  MICHEL  who 
hands  it  to  the  LIEUTENANT.) 

Clotilde  (to  the  FLAG  BEARER). —  Lieutenant,  come,  I  beg  of  you.  (She 
goes  out  with  him.) 

SCENE  XII 

MICHEL,  HEROUARD,  BERNARD,  JEANNE,  HELENE 

Bernard  (to  HELENE). —  Why  this  insane  act  ? 

Helene. —  I  was  found  out  too  soon.  I  meant  to  go  to  my  room  and 
throw  the  flag  out  of  the  window  at  the  feet  of  the  soldiers. 

Bernard. —  I  am  overwhelmed.  What  did  you  expect  ?  What  did  you 
hope  for  ? 

Helene. —  I  wished  to  be  arrested,  condemned,  put  in  prison.  (Looking 
at  MICHEL.)  Those  that  have  fallen  lowest  must  feel  at  home  with  me! 

Herouard.  —  Well.  Mademoiselle,  your  strange  wish  shall  not  be 
granted.  You  shall  not  be  arrested,  nor  even  annoyed.  (Turning  to  BER- 
NARD.) It  would  be  cruel  to  take  seriously  the  mad  freak  of  a  girl. 

Bernard  (to  the  COLONEL). —  Be  sure  I  shall  make  her  pay  dearly  for 
her  joke. 

SCENE  XIII 

MICHEL,  HEROUARD,  BERNARD,  JEANNE,  HELENE,  CLOTILDE,  the  FLAG 

BEARER 

(The  FLAG  BEARER  returns  holding  the  flag  and  followed  by  CLOTILDE. 
He  goes  straight  to  HEROUARD.) 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

Herouard  (to  the  FLAG  BEARER). —  All  is  well  ? 

The  Flag  Bearer. — Yes,  in  perfect  condition,  Colonel.     (He  moves  toward 
the  front  door.) 

Herouard  (to  BERNARD). —  Then,  good  by,  dear  deputy. 

Bernard. —  We  will  all  assist  at  your  departure. 

Herouard. —  Onward !  (All  leave  except  HELENE  and  MICHEL.  A s  he 
goes  fast  the  latter,  the  COLONEL  stops  and  says  one  word.)  Thanks.  (Then 
he  joins  the  others  gathered  on  the  doorstep  to  assist  at  the  ceremony  of  the  flag. 
The  first  orders  are  given. — HELENE  rushes  outside  like  a  mad  woman.  With 
one  stride  MICHEL  throws  himself  in  her  path  and  bars  her  way.) 

Michel. —  Halt!  Where  are  you  going?  (Showing  the  flag.)  'Tis  a 
thing  one  dies  for!  One  does  not  insult  it.  (At  the  same  moment,  at  the 
command:  To  the  flag!  The  proper  salute  bursts  forth.)  HELENE  falls  into 
an  armchair  and  remains  overcome,  while  MICHEL  gazes  at  the  people  gathered 
on  the  doorstep  around  the  flag.  As  soon  as  honors  have  been  paid,  commands 
are  given  and  the  company  departs.  During  the  following  scene  the  music 
is  heard  farther  and  farther  away,  playing  martial  airs.  CLOTILDE  and 
JEANNE  disappear  into  the  house.  BERNARD  returns  and  goes  straight  to 
HELENE.) 

Bernard. —  Mademoiselle,  after  such  behavior  I  no  longer  know  you! 
I  give  you  five  minutes  in  which  to  leave  the  house.  You  will  find  your 
luggage  at  the  station.  Five  minutes,  do  you  hear  ?  (He  leaves.) 

SCENE  XIV 
MICHEL,  HELENE 

Helene. —  Well!  In  spite  of  you,  I  have  what  I  wanted!  On  the  side- 
walk, without  shelter,  without  bread!  Will  you  have  the  courage  to  leave 
me  in  the  street  ? 

Michel. —  What!  You  wished  to  be  even  more  miserable  than  I,  in 
order  to  save  my  life  ? 

Helene. —  I  wished  to  destroy  your  scruples.  Is  it  done  ?  Do  you 
intend  to  take  me  along  ? 

Michel. —  Listen  first  to  a  terrible  secret  that  I  dared  not  reveal  yester- 
day and  that  I  can  no  longer  conceal  from  you  to-day.  (A  pause.)  Do  you 
not  notice,  dear  Helene,  that  our  natures  are  strangely  alike  ?  We  act  from 
very  different  motives,  you  from  excess  of  charity,  I  from  excess  of  egotism, 
but  once  resolved,  we  have  but  one  way  to  reach  the  end.  That  theft  of  the 
flag,  it  is  the  kind  of  trick  I  would  resort  to!  Through  the  smallest  act  of 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

» 

Helena  Froment  pierces  the  nature  of  Michel  Prinson.  You  are  brave, 
earnest,  and  mad,  you  are  what  I  was  at  your  age,  with  one  thing  added, 
kindness!  I  who  fancied  myself  dead,  I  find  myself  in  you  thrilling  again 
with  youth  and  hope.  Is  it  I  ?  Is  it  you  ?  I  no  longer  know:  Father  and 
daughter  are  one! 

Helene  (overcome). —  I  am  afraid  I  understand:  The  likeness  in  our 
natures  is  not  mere  chance  then  ? 

Michel. —  Well,  of  course  not!  You  are  my  daughter,  my  own  daughter, 
my  blood! 

Helene. —  The  one  who  basely  deserted  my  mother  and  me  is  you! 
Who  as  a  child  stood  to  me  for  all  that  is  bad  is  you! 

Michel. —  I  was  bad!  With  you,  I  am  quite  a  different  man.  You 
say  things  that  stir  my  very  soul!  So  now  when  I  was  despairing  of  ever 
obtaining  glory,  you  nobly  prove  to  me  that  it  can  be  replaced  by  tenderness! 
You  see  those  words  stirred  the  very  ashes  of  my  heart.  They  brought 
to  life  a  glowing  ember.  I  have  known  my  child  only  one  day,  and  already  I 
love  her! 

Helene. —  You  ought  to  have  loved  her  for  twenty  years! 

Michel. —  Be  generous!  It  is  really  too  easy  to  crush  me!  I  have 
suffered  so  much!  I  can  no  more!  The  reasons  I  gave  for  my  return  were 
only  pretexts  my  pride  invented.  In  reality,  I  am  only  an  exile  hunting  for 
an  opening  through  which  to  slip  back  to  humanity,  like  a  lost  dog  who 
wanders  around  hamlets  at  night  scratching  at  barn  doors.  Open  to  me! 
Brine;  me  back  among  the  living! 

Helene. —  Not  until  you  have  gained  the  forgiveness  of  the  dead ! 

Michel. —  What  dead  ? 

Helene. —  My  poor  mother!  I  remember  she  was  dying  and  I  was 
praying  at  her  bedside.  She  interrupted  me  as  I  was  repeating  the  old 
formula  in  which  we  recommend  to  God  our  father  and  our  mother:  '  No, 
not  him,  not  him!  Only  me.' 

Michel. —  She  was  delirious! 

Helene. —  Yes !  She  no  longer  concealed  her  real  feelings  —  if  I  went 
with  you  I  should  offend  her  memory. 

Michel. —  You  would  offend  nothing.  Does  one  allow  oneself  to  be 
concerned  by  the  vagaries  of  the  sick  ?  Your  story  proves  that  usually  you 
were  made  to  pray  for  me!  I  had  been  forgiven.  Your  mother  - 

Helene. —  Her  last  wish  was  that  I  should  never  mingle  your  two  names. 

Michel. —  What!  It  isn't  enough  to  have  every  living  soul  against  me; 
but  even  the  dead  must  rise  from  the  grave  to  snatch  my  daughter  from  me! 
Well!  I  will  fight  with  the  dead  even  for  my  daughter.  To  begin  with, 


THE  BEAT  OF  THE  WING 

since  she  does  not  fall  into  my  arms,  I  will  be  the  one  to  open  mine  to  her. 
Let  them  snatch  her  from  me.  (He  seizes  HELENE  and  gives  her  a  long 
embrace.  Furious,  she  struggles  and  pushes  him  away.} 

Helene. —  Let  me  alone!  Never  again!  Go  back  where  kisses  are 
taken  by  brute  force  —  back  to  your  blacks! 

Michel. —  You  are  fortunate  not  to  be  taken  at  your  word;  among  the 
blacks  I  would  kill  whoever  resisted  me. 

Helene. —  Is  that  a  way  to  tell  me  that  if  I  resist  I  shall  be  massacred  ? 

Michel. —  I  will  not  allow  you  to  play  with  my  misery.  Yesterday  you 
insisted  upon  linking  your  life  with  a  stranger's,  and  now  because  I  am  your 
father,  you  condemn  me  to  eternal  solitude.  It  cannot  be!  I  am  not 
the  stuff  that  martyrs  are  made  of.  I  wish  you  to  go  away  with  me.  You 
offered  —  and  you'll  hold  good! 

Helene. —  No,  I  will  not  hold  good. 

Michel. —  Take  care!  Till  now,  I've  been  good  natured.  You  had 
tamed  the  ogre!  Don't  trust  to  it!  The  ogre  is  losing  patience - 

Helene. —  Will  you  always  have  this  mania  for  frightening  little  girls  ? 
At  least  do  wait  till  you  are  in  the  circus.  That  battlefield  will  be  worthy 
of  you. 

Michel. —  Ah!  You  insult  me,  little  demon!  (He  jails  upon  her  and 
seizes  her  by  the  throat.}  Beg  my  pardon  or  I'll  strangle  you.  (Thrusting 
her  roughly  upon  the  -floor.}  On  your  knees!  Beg,  at  once!  For  your  life, 
beg! 

Helene  (choking). —  Forgive  me! 

Michel  (shaking  her  violently}. —  My  father! 

Helene  (in  a  choking  voice}. —  My  father!  (MlCHEL  releases  his  grasp. 
HELENE  throws  her  arms  around  his  neck  repeating  in  a  vibrating  voice.} 
My  father!  I  will  follow  you  —  I  will  obey  —  ah!  Never  mind!  You 
compel  me!  I  am  no  longer  responsible.  (She  bursts  into  tears.} 

Michel  (after  a  long  embrace}. —  Poor  child!  (Clasping  her  to  his 
breast.}  I  can  hear  your  heart  thumping!  (He  gazes  at  Helene' s  hand 
placed  over  his  own.}  Your  hand  trembles. 

Helene. —  It  is  rage!     After  such  a  dressing! 

Michel. —  You  are  enraged  and  you  embrace  me  ? 

Helene. —  I  am  both  furious  and  happy.  First  of  all,  if  I  had  not  wished 
to  be  conquered  I  should  have  died  rather  than  give  in. 

Michel.—  Yes,  you  would  have  died!     Your  life  hung  by  a  thread! 

Helene. —  I  saw  it  in  your  eyes. 

Michel. —  My  life,  too,  moreover.  It  isn't  writh  impunity  that  one  can 
speak  of  hope  to  the  damned.  I  would  have  died  with  you  before  leaving 
here  alone. 


FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

Helene. —  It  is  that  which  eases  my  conscience. 

Michel. —  Well!  The  moral  is  a  good  one.  And  this  little  heart  is  no 
longer  beating  too  hard  ? 

Helene. —  No.  I  am  quite  normal  again.  Give  me  time  to  put  on  my 
hat  and  I  will  go  with  you  to  the  antipodes.  (She  goes  up  to  a  mirror  and 
places  her  hat  upon  her  head.} 

Michel. —  Without  regret  ? 

Helene  (with  her  hat  on  turns  to  MICHEL). —  I  know  there  will  never  be 
any  forgiveness  for  you.  We  two  henceforth  shall  be  alone  in  the  world. 
(BERNARD  enters.} 

SCENE  XV 
MICHEL,  HELENE,  BERNARD 

Bernard  (to  MICHEL). —  Are  you  taking  her  along  ? 

Michel. —  Yes. 

Bernard. —  I  think  that  in  this  affair  you  have  not  lost  anything.  You 
arrived  alone  and  unhappy,  you  leave  with  Helene,  who  will  be  your  con- 
solation. 

Helene  (to  MICHEL). —  Do  not  fear  to  wound  me.  Answer  that  after 
all  you  do  lose  something.  Glory  had  offered  you  millions  of  souls  to  con- 
quer and  you  conquered  only  the  little  heart  of  a  child. 

Michel  (pulling  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes}. —  Let  us  be  gone!  (He 
seizes  HELENE  by  the  wrist  and  drags  her  away.} 

SCENE  XVI 
BERNARD,  CLOTILDE 

BERNARD  behind  glass  door  gazes  at  HELENE  and  MICHEL  leaving  by  the 
garden.  CLOTILDE  enters. 

Clotilde. —  I  was  watching  his  departure.  Is  he  at  last  taking  Helene 
with  him  ? 

Bernard  (waving  toward  them}. —  Look! 

Clotilde  (running  toward  him}. —  Why  does  he  drag  her  along  like  a  bird 
of  prey?  She  is  almost  running. 

Bernard. —  He  is  running  to  hide  his  tears.  He  has  just  seen  his  great 
winged  chimera  flying  away  from  him  forever! 


A     000  096  385     o 


